


The Portfolio of Pining

by so_shhy



Series: Portfolio of Pining 'verse [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Bucky is a fashion photographer, Homophobia, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Sexism, and cries a lot, and looks pretty as he does it, basically Bucky has issues, except not actually after chapter one, they grow up so fast, this is mostly irrelevant to the plot, wall-to-wall angst, with a happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-16
Updated: 2014-07-16
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:29:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 11
Words: 27,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969092
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/so_shhy/pseuds/so_shhy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bucky is a fashion photographer and pines over Steve for approximately four years.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky's Gay Epiphany

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Hils](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hils/gifts).



> This fic can be blamed on two things. Firstly, [this tumblr post](http://hils79.tumblr.com/post/82729129719/bucky-has-no-interest-in-boobs-hed-rather-text), and secondly, the fact that Sebastian Stan looks so goddamn pretty when he cries.
> 
> This whole thing was originally posted on tumblr. A million thanks to [bliss116](http://bliss116.tumblr.com/) for Ameripicking, betaing and generally tidying it up, and to [hils](http://hils79.tumblr.com/) for all the picture prompts that made the story possible.
> 
> I tried to think of more sensible chapter titles for the AO3 version, but... yeah, that didn't happen.
> 
> WARNINGS: a whole lot of homophobia, internalised and otherwise, and a mention of sexual assault of a minor character in chapter 7. You can skip that whole chapter if you like, it won't make much difference overall. Also Sam gets a shitty deal in the relationship stakes, so, you know, be prepared for that.

He's been worrying about it for... well, okay Truth? He's been worrying about it for years, just a little, deep down. But now he's worrying about it _all the fucking time._

He thinks about it before he goes to sleep each night. He wakes up in the morning hoping it's magically gone away. It pops into his head in classes, and even today, on his really exciting, special treat day, he can't get it out of his head.

But he'd _know_ , wouldn't he? If he were gay, he'd have to know. And he doesn't. It's just this tiny suspicion; it doesn't mean anything. A gay guy wouldn't do the things he does. He only jerks off to straight porn, and he sleeps with women and enjoys it. And if he sometimes (most times) thinks about guys while he does, well, people think about weird shit during sex.

Besides, it's normal to get turned on by guys. It's like a Kinsey scale thing. If you don't do anything about it then it doesn't count. And it especially doesn't count when it's Steve, because come on, _anybody_ would with Steve. Even when he was tiny and skinny he was so fucking lovely, and now...

Anyway, none of it's definitive proof of anything, so he should just calm the fuck down and get on with his life. His life which is awesome, because his professor loved his latest project and got him a one-day placement with a fashion photographer.

He was really happy when she told him, and he went straight to find Steve. He ran into some other guys on the way, and he did talk it up, because hey, models. And maybe he said some stuff that was a little crass, and some of them said stuff that really wasn't nice.

Like: _"It's like you got free entry to an all-you-can-eat buffet, Barnes. Un-fucking-fair. You gotta forget your phone in the dressing room, dude. Livestream the hot naked ladeez to your loyal companions."_

That got a whole lot of yells of agreement from the guys, which was really creepy, and Bucky... well, maybe instead of calling them out on it he said something he shouldn't have said about the hot naked ladeez. Steve walked up while he was in the middle of it and looked _so disappointed_ , and fuck. Just. Fuck.

Now he's here at the shoot. One step through the door, trailing after the photographer's assistant, and he stops short, gaping like a moron. This is the point where he should really text one of the guys and say, _dude, they're all topless, oh my fucking god_.

He's never even imagined that he'd see so many bare breasts on so many beautiful women at once. They're everywhere. Big and small, pert and bouncy, and... hot, of course. Really hot.

With the first few girls that wander past him, chattering away while trying to wriggle their asses more comfortably into their tight jeans, he has to work really hard not to stare. Makes him nervous, because popping a boner wouldn't be ideal, but luckily there's all the photography stuff to concentrate on. After a while, he tunes out the distractions, caught up in talking about lighting and composition, and they get some really good shots. The girls look great. The clothes are awesome.

They break for lunch. He stands in a corner with his sandwich and looks around at the roomful of models, and thinks about how it's been hours since he really noticed they were topless.

They're still milling around, so he tries staring a little bit, like a real red-blooded American male, just to get back into it. But he can't get back into it, because somehow their tits are just kind of samey, and it's boring.

The correct response to a constant stream of breasts is not, _eh, seen one seen them all_.

Unless you're not really into girls.

And... well. Maybe it's time to buy a fucking clue.

 _Fuck_. His heart's hammering and he's so scared, his mind going through a panicked review of just what this will do to his life if it's true. Please let it not be true. It's a mistake. He's just confused by all the breasts. Breast overload.

He needs to talk to Steve. Not even about anything specific, he just needs to hear that voice telling him something normal and safe. Something that can make life go back to the way it was this morning, when he was just a little worried. When he hadn't had his sexuality paraded in front of him, written in large letters on a dozen female chests. But Steve knows him too well. Bucky will get two words out and Steve will know something's wrong, and what the hell's he supposed to say? _Hey buddy, would you do me a favour? Talk to me about football until I'm not gay anymore._

Yeah, right.

Vaguely he notices that one of the models has come over to his corner of the room and is leaning against the wall beside him, practising a pose or something.

"Are you a model too?" she asks.

Bucky stares down at Steve's contact details, finger hovering over the call button. Shakes his head. "I'm a photography student." He looks up to meet her perfectly made-up eyes. She's got long brown hair, glossy, pretty, and... no. Nothing.

She sighs. "Damn. You know, I've really got to get some new cheesy pick-up lines. That one's like a jinx; every guy I try it on turns out to bat for the other team. Should have known with you, though. You're just too pretty to be real."

He stares at her. He can feel his mouth moving to shape the words _I'm not..._ but no sound is coming out.

She quirks an eyebrow, amused. "Oh come on, if you were straight, you sure as hell wouldn't have looked at my face just now. Not with these beauties on display... hey, honey, are you okay?"

No, he's not okay.

Honestly, she's pretty good about having him burst into tears on her. She listens to his garbled story and says soothing things while he splutters in the corner, then she takes his phone out of his hand, asks, "Is this guy your friend? Can I give him a call?"

Another girl comes over, and now there's two half-naked models cooing over him and he just really wants Steve to be here.

Topless model #1 ('Jenna,' she tells him) gives him back his phone. They sit him down in a dressing room with a box of Kleenex. People come and go. There are various whispered conversations outside the door.

Like:

_"Is he one of the models?"_

_"No, that's just how he dresses."_

_"Wow. And he’s only just_ now _figured out that he's gay?"_

_"Shut up, Jude, don't be a bitch."_

And:

_"I wish I could look that pretty when I'm crying."_

_"I know, right. Do you think he cries when he comes?"_

_"Oh my god, what the fuck is wrong with you?"_

And:

_"His boyfriend's hot; I saw the picture on his phone contacts."_

_"Would you grow a brain, Marie? If he's having a gay epiphany, he can't already have a boyfriend."_

_"So this Steve guy might be straight? Dibs."_

Bucky grinds his teeth. Dibs? She can go fuck herself.

Then finally Steve's there, lighting up the room like sunshine, and he's just... solid. Warm and steady. He wraps his arms around Bucky and they sit there unmoving for a long time. Bucky closes his eyes and hangs on tight to the one person in his life where he doesn't have to wonder if it'll make a difference, if it'll be a problem, if they can still be friends. Of course it won't make a difference to Steve. Steve's sickeningly perfect.

Well. Mostly perfect. Bucky's seen him cry and it's sure as hell not pretty.

"I don't wanna be a fag, Steve," he mumbles.

Steve gives him a little squeeze and says, "Well, as a straight guy you can be kind of an asshole, so it's probably an improvement."

"Punk."

"Jerk. It's gonna be okay."

"Is it?" Panic grips him and he huddles up against Steve, shaking, hands fisted in Steve's shirt. "You can't tell anyone."

"I won't tell."

"Swear it. You gotta swear."

"I swear."

Steve wouldn't ever break a swear. Bucky can think up a sensible lie, say he got food poisoning, or something, and Steve brought him home. Nobody will need to know.

Steve does that thing where he's so polite and charming, thanking Jenna for calling him, saying how glad he is that they were here for Bucky, sweetly telling Marie that no, he's not looking to meet anyone right now and they'd better get going, and everyone's all smiles and then they're outside and Bucky can almost breathe again.

"Goddamn breasts," he says, snuffling into his Kleenex.

Steve starts laughing in an incredibly guilty way, like he knows it's completely inappropriate, but he just can't help it. It's all kinds of adorable and all kinds of hilarious, and Bucky starts laughing too. They cling to each other, and Steve wraps him up in a huge hug again. It's the best feeling; it feels so good to have Steve there...

It's always so good to have Steve there.

"It really will be okay, Bucky," Steve says, grinning all gentle and fond, still pink from laughing and with tears drying at the corners of his eyes. "Trust me."

And just... fuck.

 _Good luck denying this one, Barnes,_ Bucky thinks.

It's impossible to miss. He's keeping his mouth shut this time, though. _I think I'm gay_ is enough of a reveal for one day.

 _I think I'm completely in love with you_ is going to have to wait a while.


	2. Bucky is Closeted and Angsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve makes a new friend called Sam and accidentally tramples Bucky’s heart into the dirt.

It's not that Bucky doesn't like exercise. He likes the gym, and he loves anything that involves attempting to high-kick someone in the head, but Saturday mornings are not meant for that shit. They weren't meant for it when he was a student, and they're meant for it even less now that he’s a real grown-up photographer’s assistant and has to get up at a reasonable hour _every single day_ from Monday to Friday. Saturday mornings are meant for lazing in bed, listening to Steve move around in his room across the hall and the click of the front door as he goes out, and being very glad that _he's_ not the one about to run three times round Prospect Park.

About an hour after Steve leaves, he drags himself out of bed and makes his way down to their favourite diner on 8th Ave, to meet whoever else has managed to wake up before noon, and wait for Steve to finish his run. Steve always turns up glowing from the exertion, apologises for his sweatiness (every time) and orders something disgustingly healthy, while Bucky wolfs down bacon and pancakes like a normal person.

This time it's just him and Peggy, Steve's ex, sitting in slightly strained silence while they wait. Steve always stays on good terms with his exes, but that doesn't mean Bucky has to like them. Thank god, though, before it gets awkward enough for Bucky to stab himself in the arm as a distraction, Steve appears in the window. He gives them a grin and a wave, then turns to say goodbye to the guy he's with.

It's not news that Steve has a new running buddy. Steve started talking about him a couple of weeks ago, laughing about some macho competitive thing they've got going on. His name's Sam Wilson, and Steve seems to like him a lot. Bucky's never met the guy before, but this has to be him. He looks like a runner, for sure, and he has muscles fucking _everywhere_. He's ripped and gorgeous, and Bucky dislikes him on sight, because the way Sam is moving, cocking his head and smiling, angling his body just right, accidentally-on-purpose brushing their shoulders together, is not the way a platonic running buddy acts.

Bucky feels possessive jealousy rise up in his gut, even as he thinks, _you're barking up the wrong tree there, pal_.

Steve is straight. Steve is the only person who knows Bucky is as bent as a paperclip. And Steve is the subject of _Bucky's_ hopeless adoration. Nobody gets to pine pathetically over Steve but him.

Which is why after Steve comes in, apologises for the sweatiness, and orders his whole-wheat toast and scrambled egg, Bucky blurts out, "Steve, this Sam guy... I don't think it's such a good idea for you to be going running with him."

Steve looks confused. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"I'm just saying... I don't think he's in it for the cardio. He got other stuff on his mind." Steve looks quizzical, just not _getting_ it, and Bucky makes an exasperated noise. "Look, Steve, he's _gay_."

"So?" Steve says, and fuck, he's oblivious if he thinks he can wear a shirt that tight, and smile at a guy like he just smiled at Sam and _not_ have it taken as a blatant come-on. Bucky doesn't really care about Sam's feelings, but it seems unfair of Steve to lead him on. Also, he doesn't want Steve to get all flustered and apologetic about rejecting the guy, and he _definitely_ doesn't want to watch Steve's sad puppy-dog eyes when Sam ditches him to go running with someone who might actually put out.

Peggy's staring at him, mouth open. "I can't believe you just said that, Bucky," she says. "That's incredibly homophobic."

Bucky tries to get a hold of his expression, but he can't help the way his mouth twists, and he knows he's blushing. Yeah, that may have sounded bad, but fuck Peggy, she can think what she wants. "Whatever," he says to Steve. "Just don't expect him to be your buddy when he figures out you're not interested."

The tips of Steve's ears flush gently pink. He smiles, shy but happy. "Who says I'm not interested?"

It's as though the whole world freezes. Bucky can't hear the noise of the people around him anymore, can't hear anything but his own breathing. "What?" he says. His voice sounds surprisingly calm, just very far away. This isn't happening. What the actual fuck?

"Yeah," Steve says. "I never really thought about it before I met Sam, but... yeah, I'm interested."

"But you're straight. Steve? _Steve_?"

"Oh god, Bucky," Peggy says, "are you honestly doing this? Really? He's still Steve, you know. It doesn't turn him into an alien, and it's not _catching_."

"Peggy," Steve says, glancing over to give her a reproving look.

"No, don't 'Peggy' me. He's supposed to be your best friend, and this is how he reacts to the fact that you might like a guy? Like it's going to destroy your manly buddy-buddy relationship. How are you going to wrestle him for a football now, Barnes, knowing he might be grabbing for your arse? How-"

"Peggy, stop it."

"What, Steve? Are you _defending_ this bigoted idiot?"

And yeah, that's pretty much when Bucky shoves himself out of his seat and gets the fuck out of dodge.

***

He doesn't answer his phone when it rings. When it starts vibrating with text after text, he switches it off without reading them. For a while he wanders, not knowing where to go or what to do with himself. He goes to a movie theatre and sits there in the dark, eating stale popcorn, watching cars explode and trying his best not to cry. He can't think. It was bearable before, when Steve was some perfect but unattainable thing. He'd taught himself not to want more than he could have, because it was never going to happen. But this is like a bucket of cold water dumped over him. Steve likes guys. Guys, but not him. All that time, and he does like guys, and he never once looked at Bucky.

The movie ends. He can't even remember what it was called.

He wanders again.

It's only when he starts shivering that he realises dusk is falling and the air is turning cold. He must have been walking in circles for hours. By the looks of it he's ended up somewhere in Bed-Stuy. Going home and facing Steve's questions holds absolutely no appeal, so he wraps his arms around himself, keeps walking, and ducks into the first bar he comes across.

It's a dive, and mostly empty, just a few people scattered around the tables and a couple more at the bar. Bucky heads that way, and only realises that his feet are practically numb when he catches one of them on the leg of a bar stool, pitches forward, and nearly brains himself on the counter.

Fortunately for the integrity of his skull, the guy on the neighbouring stool shoots out an arm, grabs him by his jacket, and hauls him back upright.

"Woah. Had a few too many already, huh?"

"No," Bucky says, shaking himself free. "But I'm gonna."

"Not stopping you," the guy says. "Ya look like you need it. Shitty day?"

"Shitty life," Bucky says. He shrugs off his jacket and tosses it on the offending stool, twitching his clothes back into place.

"Gotta be something bad to make a nice kid like you come drown your sorrows with the rest of us schmucks," the guy says. He looks Bucky up and down, and grins. "Yeah... I can see the footprint where cupid kicked you in the teeth."

Bucky snorts. "That obvious?"

"Let's just say I know the feeling."

The 'nice kid' crack is unfair, since the guy can't be more than five years older than Bucky. He's sturdily built with fair hair and impressive arm muscles, handsome in an everyman kind of way, and his smile has a wry, unhappy twist to it. Bucky doesn't really want to cope with someone else's drama right now, but the thought of getting wasted all on his own is even more depressing than listening to some other guy's miserable love life. "Girlfriend trouble?" he prompts.

"We were never together. An' it's a guy, not a girl, so if that's a problem you can fuck off to a different seat."

"Really not a problem," Bucky says.

The guy pauses, gives him a searching glance, then follows it up with a wrinkle of his nose. "You too, huh? Sorry." He gestures to his half-empty glass. "This shit puts my gaydar on the fritz, which is kind of inconvenient when I end up hitting on drunk-ass homophobic straight dudes. I'm Clint."

At any other time, Bucky would roll his eyes and say, _Jesus, dude, you think I'm...? No, I just meant I'm cool with it_. But right now... well, fuck it all.

"Bucky," he says.

They shake hands. "So," Clint says, going for another gulp of his beer, "who rained on your parade today?"

"This... this guy. My friend."

Clint raises an eyebrow; he might not be quite sober, but he's still quick on the uptake. "This friend, is he actually your friend, or you want to jump his bones but he hasn't got the memo yet?"

"Both," Bucky says bitterly. He waves at the bartender, who reluctantly tears himself away from the two women he's flirting with and comes over to their end of the bar. "Give me a Mai Tai. Or an appletini. Something as gay as fuck."

"Oh, it's gonna be one of _those_ evenings," Clint says. He pushes his beer to one side and tilts his head at the surprised bartender. "Yeah, I'll have what he's having."

***

Bucky wakes to a world of pain. His head's pounding, his stomach's roiling, his mouth tastes like wet dog, and he's pretty sure he's about to throw up. He peels open his eyes, whimpering at the brightness, and rolls over. Someone left a trash can by his bed, thank god, because his legs are definitely not going to carry him as far as the bathroom.

While his stomach is in the process of turning itself inside out, footsteps come into the room, smacking into his skull like sandbags dropped from a height. "Fuuuuck," he moans, and looks up to find Steve standing over him with a bunch of paper towels, a glass of water, and a worried expression. Steve's wearing sweatpants and his New York Marathon shirt, and Bucky wonders if this is before or after his sweaty daily run with Sam. He unwisely shakes his head to get rid of the image and has to make another hasty dive for the trash can.

"Oh, Bucky," Steve says, and miraculously spares him any awkward questions or disapproving lectures for the time being, just helps him rinse his mouth, feeds him ibuprofen and about three glasses of water, and leaves him to sleep.

***

When he resurfaces, it's two in the afternoon and he feels significantly less terrible, though not able to do much more than stagger to the bathroom and prop himself up under the shower spray. Then he pulls on the first clean clothes he can find, and weaves his unsteady way to the living room.

Steve, sitting comfortably with his sketchbook in his lap, looks up as he comes in, and smirks. "Huh. You know, it's impressive how you can look a million times better than you did this morning and still look like week-old roadkill."

"Fuck off," Bucky says, the height of witty repartee, and flops onto the other end of the couch.

Steve laughs, gets to his feet, and goes to the kitchen, returning a couple of minutes later with Gatorade and toast slathered in peanut butter and jelly. Bucky grabs for it like a starving man. "Oh fuck yeah. Thanks." He swallows a mouthful and looks up sheepishly. "And, you know... thanks for..." For being the guy who'll stroke my hair and clean up my puke when I drink myself into oblivion, he finishes in his head, because Steve's amazing and Bucky doesn't deserve him. And neither, by the way, does Sam fucking Wilson.

"Any time." Steve settles back down and lets Bucky munch through the toast before asking, "What on earth happened to you last night?"

"I got shitfaced," Bucky says. He sets his empty plate on the floor and slumps sideways, and if he burrows against Steve a little bit, well, he's a masochist, so sue him.

Steve's arm wraps around his shoulders. "I know, stupid. I also know you were hanging out with a guy named Clint who really likes arrows."

"What? How do you know that?"

"Because I got a call from Officer Coulson of the NYPD, who told me to come pick you up. He said you were causing a disturbance."

"I got _arrested_?"

"He was off duty. You were at his place."

 _Oh shit,_ Bucky thinks, and starts to laugh helplessly, because it's beginning to come back to him. The bar and Clint and an infinite number of appletinis, and honestly, it ended up being a pretty good night.

"It's not funny," Steve says. "Bucky, you were singing the Captain America theme song outside his window at 2am. What were you thinking?"

And yeah, he remembers that part. That part was good. "We were serenading him," he manages, gasping for air. "To prove Clint's eternal devotion."

Steve's lips twitch. "I think the plan failed. He wasn't very happy."

That's the understatement of the century. Bucky presses his face into the couch cushion and tries not to howl with laughter. Phil Coulson had not been very happy, and Clint had not been remotely coherent, and it had been an epic shitshow interspersed with snatches of song. God knows how it ended, because from then on his memory dissolves into a pleasant, hazy blur of giggling.

"You feeling okay?" Steve says, looking at him like he's crazy.

"Yeah," Bucky says. He feels fragile, like he's made of glass and the swelling laughter's going to shatter him from the inside. "Yeah, I'm good."

Steve grins, but his eyes are unhappy-looking. When Bucky's got himself under control again, Steve pulls him back against his side and they sprawl together, warm and relaxed. "Bucky, I'm so sorry about what Peggy said to you. She feels awful about it. I explained it to her--"

Bucky goes rigid. "You _told_ her?" he says, and fuck, fuck, _no_. He can't deal with this.

"Don't be dumb, Buck, of course I didn't. I just said you're definitely not a homophobe, you just wanted to make sure Sam knew he was trying to hit on a straight guy. She could see how much she'd upset you." He pets Bucky's hair a little. "Nice job on the dramatic exit. I haven't seen someone storm out of a room like that since I used to watch Days Of Our Lives with my grandma."

Bucky grumbles, but the touch feels good, so he lays his head back on Steve's shoulder. "Okay. You can't tell her."

"You know she wouldn't care, right? I wish you would tell people, Bucky. Wouldn't you like to be able to just... be yourself? At least with your friends."

"No," Bucky says sharply. "I _am_ myself."

He's not _the gay guy_ , the fucking fashion photographer who minces around drinking smoothies and calling models 'darling'. He doesn't want to be that. He's Bucky, who has frat buddies, and gets to hang out with hot models on photoshoots, and has an awesome life. He refuses to be _one of those people_ , and he's sure as hell not gonna be the sob story victim whose family won't speak to him because of what he is.

"Okay," Steve says gently. "It's your decision. You get to make it in your own time." He snuggles them together again, and fuck, Bucky loves him so much that he doesn't even care how much it hurts, just so long as they get to be close.

"So I was thinking," Steve says, "I know Peggy's not your favourite person right now, but she was really just trying to stick up for me. She's important to me, and it would mean a lot if you two could patch things up. Maybe we could all go for a drink together. I'll bring Sam -- I want to introduce you guys anyway." He smiles hopefully, the goddamn clueless bastard. "Then she'll see that you're okay with it, and apologise, and things can go back to normal. Would you do that?"

Great. A drink with Sam. Sam, who brings out the gay in everyone. Bucky wants to shake Steve, and yell, " _Why him? Why him and not me?_ "

But he doesn't. He just tries to smile back, and if it looks like a pretty pathetic attempt maybe Steve will blame it on the hangover.

"Sure," he says. "No problem. Sounds good."

In a way, it does sound good. Because if Sam can make Steve happy, the way none of the girls have yet... well. That's more important.


	3. The Portfolio of Pining

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky needs to do a photo shoot for his portfolio. Steve objects to being roped in as a model. Sam, however, does not.

The thing about being friends with Steve when you work as an assistant on photo shoots? The really annoying thing about it? You realise that when it comes to models, Steve's more photogenic than every last one of them.

Bucky knows a lot of models, male and female. Most of them would do him a favour if he asked, especially if they got some good portfolio pieces out of it. And he's gotten to the stage in his career where he needs a portfolio. Not just a set of photos from shoots he's worked on, but also stuff that has his own stamp on it. Stuff that shows off what he _knows_ he can do. Because he's good at this. Not to brag, or anything, but he's actually really good at this.

He's got his hands on some time in a studio. His own equipment is decent enough. He can buy, beg and borrow the clothes. Finding a model is the easiest part. But he doesn't want any of the professional models he knows. He wants Steve to do it.

Steve is pretty adamant that it's not going to happen.

"No, Bucky, you know I can't. I'll feel like such an idiot."

Bucky's never pretended to have shame. He pleads. He pouts. He tries every form of bribery and emotional blackmail he can think of. Steve, for once, is unmoved by his sad eyes.

"I'm not going to stand up there in front of a camera all by myself wearing a silly outfit and trying to _pose_."

"It won't be a silly outfit," Bucky says patiently. "It'll be a range of awesome outfits, and none of them will involve a plaid shirt or a hoodie."

"No. There must be a hundred other people you could ask."

"Steve, _please_."

"How about Sam? I bet he'd do it."

Bucky stops short, because _there's_ an idea. One of those lightbulb-above-the-head moments. Steve won't stand up there by himself, but Sam has a way of making scary things a whole lot less scary. He's a counsellor; it's his job.

"How about you _and_ Sam?"

Because, thinking about it, they would be the perfect contrast. Sam's smooth dark skin and Steve's angelic fairness, the differences in their builds, their attitudes, and the way they move. Yeah, it would really be something to see. And while a large part of Bucky is yelling _OH HELL NO_ at the thought of the absolute torture it would be to photograph them together, that part doesn't get a say. The part of him that wants to succeed, the part that loves photography, _loves_ depicting the human form and making it art, and, yes, fucking loves designer clothes -- that part is drooling at the thought of having such a stunning pair of models.

Steve shuffles his feet and looks mulish, and Bucky grins, leaves him be, and goes to work on Sam.

It hadn't taken Sam long to become part of their group. Damn him, he's actually one of the nicest guys you could hope to meet, and despite the handicap of Bucky's secret raging jealousy, they've managed to become friends.

So Bucky works on Sam, which really takes no work at all, and Sam wraps Steve around his little finger as usual, and Operation Portfolio is a go.

It takes a while for him to get everything ready, so it's a couple of weeks later when he and Sam finally coax Steve into the studio. Bucky hustles them into their clothes, compulsively tweaks every single thing, then arranges his living dolls to his satisfaction and starts shooting.

It's _hard_. Harder than he'd thought it would be. Taken separately, they'd both be great. Steve can't help but look sheepish and self-deprecating, and Bucky could work with that; it's inherently charming and he could make it _adorable_ , if Steve would just agree to be photographed on his own. Sam exudes this calm confidence, a kind of understanding that makes Bucky think that he must be very good at his job, and he absolutely nails the pose and the attitude in every shot, glowing and alive.

But despite all that, it's a mess. Sam's rich skin tone makes Steve seem washed-out, and the proportions of their faces are off somehow. They're both disturbingly handsome, but they're not at all alike, and the differences are so jarring that each makes the other look almost alien, like they're specimens of two different species. It ought to be a beautiful contrast, but it's just a jumble, it doesn't flow. Bucky swears, fixes the lighting, changes the camera angle, rearranges the poses, swears again, puts them in different outfits, swears _again,_ and finally sits down in despair on the concrete floor of the studio.

He just can't find that elusive flow. But they _do_ flow, he knows they do; he's seen it a hundred times in those natural, casual touches that _drive him up the fucking wall_.

This is about art. It's what he wants to do with his life. It matters to him. He knows what he has to do.

"Steve," he says, "kiss him."

"What?"

"Could you just kiss him, for fuck's sake?"

"Bucky-" Steve starts to object, but Sam laughs, grabs him by the shirt, and reels him in.

They kiss, and it's beautiful. Bucky's heart is trying to thump its way out of his chest; he feels sick to his stomach and his hands are shaking, but yes. He sees it. _That's_ how they fit together. That's how they work.

He works fast after that, a whirlwind of action, because he's inspired and he doesn't know how long he can stand to look at Steve and Sam like this. He scraps everything, starts from scratch, sends the pair of them lugging his props and backdrops around, redoes the lighting, dresses them, poses them. He's got it now. It's not a contrast, it's an echo. They're not different. They're the same.

Shot after shot, and he's flying, it's all so intense, and god, they're both beautiful. Even when he's got what he needs, he can't stop. He's exhausted, but too hyped up to take his hands off the camera. "Solo shots," he demands, because this, at least, will be easy in comparison. Sam steps up willingly, and then Steve submits to a combination of peer pressure and being too damn tired to argue. By this point, Bucky's just playing around, laughing at Steve's attempts to pose, and Steve's laughing back at him, and it's perfect.

And then it really is over.

They pack up. Steve and Sam go back to Sam's place, and Bucky takes his precious memory cards home to his desktop with the large monitor, where he goes through the photos, assessing their quality and pining shamefully over them.

They've come out great. Great enough that, instead of the flutter of excited nerves he usually gets when he thinks of showing his work to people, he just feels smug. Steve and Sam look almost too perfect to be real, and the only retouching he might do is on the clothes themselves -- which look just as good as the guys wearing them. He smiles over Sam in a $5 tank that looks designer under the lighting, like it could be made of silk blend. _God,_ he's good.

He'd been worried that it would come out too _gay_ , that it would be obvious that they were a couple. But it doesn't. It's fine. They look like good friends horsing around together.

There's one shot, one of Steve's solo pictures, that's not going in the portfolio. In most of them, Steve's either doing a serious model face or he's laughing like an idiot, but in this one he's just _glowing_ , smiling gently. Bucky remembers the moment it was taken quite clearly, because he was the one who smiled first. The room had suddenly gone quiet, one of those unexpected, coincidental silences that sometimes falls in the middle a noisy conversation. Their eyes had met, and he'd smiled, because how could he not smile at Steve? He'd smiled at the long beautiful lines of him, and the laughter that softened on his face into an answering smile. A smile that held for long seconds until Bucky clicked the shutter, both capturing and breaking the moment. Now here it is in front of him, just Steve. All of Steve.

It's not going in the portfolio. It's _his._

Maybe, in the days that follow, he looks at it a little more often than he should. He almost wants to use it as Steve’s picture in his phone, but that's not normal, to put a serious modelling picture in your phone contacts, instead of an ordinary snapshot. Not for your best friend. But he does look.

And goddamn Sam catches him at it, on his iPad in the living room, coming up behind the couch without him noticing.

He covers pretty well, he thinks, just swipes on to the next photo, as though he's been looking obsessively through them to pick the best. To be fair, he does that a lot.

But Sam says, "Go back to that last one."

What choice does he have?

It's not weird, really. Sam just looks for a moment and says, "That's a really good one of him."

And Bucky says, "Thanks, I like it too," like it's nothing important.

Sam calls to Steve, and the two of them shrug on their jackets and leave for a movie, hand in hand.

Bucky never looks at the photo in public again.


	4. Bucky is Uncloseted and Angsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky doesn’t think things through and Sam is a really good guy.

It's all the kid's fault. It's his fault Bucky's sitting on the bus to his parents' apartment with a sick feeling of dread in his stomach. That fucking kid -- Billy, he said his name was, when he was standing there watching with earnest sympathy as Bucky leaned against a wall and muttered, "Oh shit, oh fucking _shit_."

Billy Kaplan, brave and skinny, all of sixteen years old. He'd given his big blond boyfriend a kiss on the cheek, and said he'd wait out in the sunshine while the boyfriend got them both Starbucks. A kiss on the cheek, on Pride weekend, for god's sake. It shouldn't even be worth a second glance. What the fuck did people expect?

But Bucky's friends - and yes, they're his friends. Some of them he's known since he was a kid, they had sleepovers with him and Steve, whispered secrets in the dark. Some of them are friends from college, neighbours in his dorm, people he saw at breakfast every day for years. People he laughed with and got drunk with. The guy who was there when he heard that his grandmother had died. The guy he sat with for six hours in the emergency room after that accident at the climbing wall. Yeah, they _are_ his friends.

Those friends gave the kid a hard time.

There'd been a half-dozen of them or more, a big jostling group talking about the parade and wondering loudly why the fuck anyone would like the stuff gay guys do to each other. The kid had been nearby. They'd asked him to explain. And when he wouldn't, they tossed a couple of nasty names his way.

See, the thing is, Bucky knows it wouldn’t have gone any further than that. There's absolutely no doubt in in his mind that none of those guys would ever hurt, or even threaten, a sixteen-year-old kid. Yes, they can be dicks. Yes, maybe since Sam became a thing, Steve's not so welcome among them. And yes, if Bucky was a better person he’d punch them for some of the shit that comes out of their mouths. But to them, it's mostly a joke. They'll laugh, they'll say shitty things. That's all.

The kid didn't know that.

He had a quick mouth on him. He snapped back insults, and he did his best not to show how scared he was. There was this resigned misery about him that made Bucky want to say, _it's okay. They're just blowing off steam, it's not you._

So he'd stepped in. Told the guys to shut up, told the kid that they were just goofing off. They weren't gay-bashing dickwads; they were good guys, really.

The kid had said, "Oh, so you're not going to beat me up in an alley? Wow, you're _great_ guys. Have a cookie."

Bucky _tried_ to explain that it didn't mean anything. That he shouldn't let a few idiots get to him.

"You think I can just _not let it get to me_?" the kid had echoed. "Fuck you. You have _no idea_ what it's like."

Which was absolutely true. He didn't know what it was like. He'd always been too chicken to tell anyone.

Seriously. All the kid's fault.

If he'd been thinking at all clearly, he would have chosen better people to come out to than these particular friends. It’s not just that they’re homophobic douchebags. Half of them used to come over to his house as kids, went to the same school, and attended mass at the same church. Basically, what he's getting at? These guys? Their parents know his parents.

Which is a huge fucking problem.

And that's why he's on the bus back to his old neighbourhood, digging his fingernails into his palms, shifting in his seat, wondering at every stop whether he should just get off. Really, is it gonna be any worse if they hear it through the grapevine? At least he wouldn't have to see their faces.

He looks at his phone. It's almost noon, so his parents and sister will be back from morning mass. Mom will be starting on lunch. Beth's probably wheedled her way into going shopping with her friends. Dad's reading the paper, doing the crossword.

They're great, his parents. He's close with his mom, always has been, and while his dad isn't exactly free with emotions, it's pretty clear that Bucky and Bethany are the things in his life he's proudest of. Bucky loves them, they love him. It ought to be simple. But it won't be. His parents' religion doesn't focus on 'love thy neighbour' and 'let he who is without sin cast the first stone'. They're the uncompromising kind of Catholic. _A baby is a human soul from the moment it's conceived, marriage is one man and one woman_ , that kind of Catholic. So he knows, even when his mom opens the door and looks as delighted as ever to see him, that it's not going to go well.

It really doesn't. At first they don't understand what he's saying. Then, they don't believe he means it. They try to protest.

His mom, in tears: "I know Steve's your friend, but please, sweetie, you can't let him lead you into that lifestyle."

His dad, looking shaky and old: "We raised you better than this."

They run through all the clichés in the book, like they're checking them off a list.

_You're just confused. You'll change your mind._

_God didn't make you this way._

_I don't understand how you can do this to your family._

And finally, his dad raises his head from his hands to say, "I'd like you to leave now, James. And please don't speak to your sister until we've decided what to tell her."

So he leaves.

"I'll pray for you, Bucky," his mom says, desperate, as though she wants to call him back but doesn't dare. As the door closes behind him, he hears his dad, all choked up like _he's_ the one hurting, say, "I'm so disappointed in him."

And there it is, cliché number one. He almost wants to laugh. _Right back atcha, you fucking asshole_ , he thinks, but it's mostly drowned out by the thing inside him that's wailing, " _Mom! Dad!_ " like he's four years old again, waking up from a nightmare and crying out for comfort.

He goes home on autopilot, feeling numb, not really aware of what's happening around him. When he gets there, Sam's sitting on the couch in a pair of Steve's sweatpants and no shirt, eating cereal. Sam fucking Wilson, who doesn't live there, shouldn't even be there, and is absolutely the last person in the world that Bucky wants to see. Except that he isn't. Anyone would be good right now, because breathing's getting really difficult and it's one of the scariest things he's felt in his life.

Apparently, in this situation, Sam's in fact exactly the person Bucky wants to see. As an honest-to-god professional, he pretty much has a handle on this panic attack bullshit. Where Steve might have freaked out a little bit, Sam doesn't even blink. He just... makes things better. Once Bucky's done the hold-for-ten-seconds thing and finally remembered how breathing works, once he's just dazed and distant, shaky, Sam starts talking about nothing in particular. Everything feels almost normal, except that for some reason they go into the kitchen and put stuff away, which, to be perfectly honest, is something Bucky would never usually do until the pile of clean dishes balanced on the draining board reached critical levels and threatened to topple over and squash the next person who walked past it. They dismantle the pile and put the dishes in their proper places, and wash up the dirty ones, and wipe down the surfaces, until it looks neater than it has in a long while.

When they're done, Sam laughs and says that Steve'll be really disturbed to come home and find it all clean, and makes some dumb crack about house elves. He tells Bucky that he did a good job, he's doing really well, which ought to feel patronising, but is actually weirdly comforting. They sit down on the sofa, and Sam says, 'Can you tell me what happened?"

Really, there's not much to say. _I told my parents I'm gay and now they're ashamed of me_ takes roughly five seconds to get through, but once that part's over he finds himself mostly talking about the kid, Billy, and what the guys had said to him, and all the other things they've said and done over the years.

It takes him a while to notice that Sam doesn’t really look surprised about any of this, and he has to ask, "Did you know?"

Sam squeezes his shoulder. "I wondered."

Bucky nods, even though he doesn't really know what that means. "Why did I do something so goddamn stupid? When I got up this morning my life was... it was good, you know? And I'm going to wake up tomorrow and it'll all be different. Forever. I'll be a different person."

"Tomorrow," Sam says, "you go ask Steve whether you're any different than you were yesterday. You already know what he'll say." He gets to his feet. "Go wash your face, I'll get the kitchen all messy again making lunch."

And huh, yeah, turns out he's been crying a whole bunch. There's a pile of crumpled Kleenex on the coffee table that he doesn't even remember using.

When he gets back from splashing cold water on his face, Sam's still in the living room, and next to him is Steve, smiling all over his face. He takes three quick strides towards Bucky, catches him around the middle in a bear hug that lifts him off his feet, and spins him around like they're in a scene at the end of a rom com.

"I'm _so_ proud of you, Buck," he says.

It's actually kind of nice.

***

While Bucky's eating Sam's pathetic attempt at an omelette, Steve leaves the room for a few minutes. When he comes back, shoving his phone into his jeans pocket, he says, "I invited some people over to help keep your mind off things."

"I don't want to see anyone."

"Well that's unfortunate," Steve says, roughly ten seconds before the doorbell rings. In come their upstairs neighbours, with two six-packs and a potted fern which they present to Bucky seriously, like a trophy, and congratulate him.

Awesome. He has a gay fern.

Next, a couple of lighting technicians he knows from photo shoots turn up. They share an apartment nearby, and bustle in with chips and vodka, informing Bucky, respectively, "I _knew_ it," and "She _so_ didn't."

Peggy brings flowers. Apparently the plant kingdom is a theme.

Devon, who was there for Bucky's big announcement, shows up, looking sheepish. He hugs Bucky, and apologises for being a dick. The other guys don't come but, as Devon says, fuck 'em.

His _boss_ comes, which is really weird.

Clint's terrifying friend Natasha glides in and asks where all the male models are. The male models arrive. Everyone seems happy.

When Clint turns up, he's dragging Phil along and loudly complaining, "Man, you interrupted our first date."

Phil gives Bucky a faintly horrified look and says, "Oh God, it's you. Clint's backup singer." But he also says, "Well done," and offers a warm handshake.

Apparently, Bucky knows a lot of people who're willing to ditch their Sunday plans to come tell him how awesome he is. And the impromptu coming-out party is nice. It does keep his mind off things, just like Steve had hoped. When he's ducking away from being laughingly smacked around the head by three girls he's slept with, it's hard to dwell on the fact that it's Beth's sixteenth birthday next month, and they were supposed to be having a family dinner for her at that little restaurant run by the DeLucas (who _also_ go to his parents' church), and now he's probably not invited.

So it's a great party. But while their upstairs neighbours are all over that shit, Mrs Jensen downstairs is less appreciative of stomping feet and blasting music. Because she's a sweet old lady, and because Steve and Bucky have both helped her with household emergencies and furniture moving in the past, she doesn't call the super, just comes and knocks and asks if they could possibly be a little more quiet, as she's trying to have her afternoon nap. And Steve, being Steve, looks mortified, apologises profusely, and is on the verge of kicking everyone out, when someone says, "What the hell are we doing here anyway? It's New York fucking _Pride_ out there."

So they do that.

Bucky usually stays well away from the Pride parade, for very obvious reasons. He doesn't really know what to expect, but the enthusiasm vibrating through the sea of cheerful people celebrating in the aftermath of the march sweeps him along with it. There's music and street food and revellers spilling out of bars in a variety of bizarre outfits or lack thereof, and everyone seems so happy.

Bucky's friends seem determined to drag him into every bar they come across, which he doesn't object to at all. Then there's dancing, which Steve is hilariously bad at. Bucky watches through his fingers, groaning, until he's interrupted in his appreciation of the spectacle by another dancer. The new guy is cute and blond with bright blue eyeliner, dressed in something skimpy and sparkly. He comes slinking up to Bucky with a wicked expression, moving to the music in a way that's absolutely mesmerising. _To hell with it_ , Bucky thinks, and lets himself be pulled into the dance.

God, it's _fun_. Flirtatious and ridiculous and sexy as fuck, and it doesn't last long enough. The guy also has a bunch of bar-crawling friends, and they're moving on.

"Okay, okay, I'll be right there," the guy yells over the music, and tells Bucky, "Gotta go, gorgeous." But he doesn't seem in too much of a hurry to leave. He pulls Bucky a little closer, until they're cheek to cheek. Bucky feels the press of lips to the corner of his mouth. He turns his head, letting his own lips part, and then they're kissing, deep and intense.

He hears laughter and catcalls behind him, and one of the guy's friends complaining, "Come the fuck on, man."

The guy laughs and pulls away with a quick, "Thanks!", and is dragged off by his friends. Bucky stands there staring stupidly after him for a moment, and then he lets out a little whoop and hugs Clint, who's the nearest. Because this, right here? This is the first time he's ever kissed a guy. It’s been three years since he realised he's gay, and he's never dared before.

It was _awesome_. Kissing girls? Kinda nice, but no biggie. Kissing guys? Fireworks in his head. And in other places.

"Holy shit," he says to Clint. "Who else can I kiss?"

"Mosta the people here, if you ask nicely."

"No," Steve says firmly. "Not today, Bucky. You stay right where I can see you."

Steve's a spoilsport, but staying close to him isn't exactly a hardship. There's more dancing and more drinks, and then, for no reason at all, Bucky's abruptly almost too exhausted to stand up. Steve and Sam drag him home and roll him into bed, and he lies there thinking of blue eyeliner and soft lips.

Then he thinks of Christmas, the one time he still goes to mass with his family. He thinks of all of the guys who didn't want to see him today, and might not ever again. He thinks of his mom's tears and his dad's disappointment. He thinks of his baby sister. What will his parents tell her? Will she forgive him for breaking their family apart?

Burying his face in the pillow, he tries to muffle the sobs shaking him. No. He can do this. He's a grown-ass man; he can deal with who he is. It's worth it, to stop lying.

But is it? Is it worth losing so much, just to be able to share a drunken kiss with some sparkly stranger in a bar?

He's so fucking pathetic. He's a grown-ass man and he wants his mom. He wants her to kiss his forehead and tell him that she loves him, the way she used to when she tucked him in at night.

"Bucky?"

Steve's voice from the doorway is rough and vague with sleep. He fumbles his way across the dark room. "Hey, it's okay," he says, "shh," and the bed dips beneath his weight as he crawls in under the covers.

Bucky tries to sit up, but Steve drags him back down with a disapproving mumble. He spoons up against Bucky, slings an arm around his waist, presses a kiss to the back of his neck, and says, "Go to sleep."

And yeah. With Steve's warm arm tucked over him, Bucky can do that.


	5. Steve and the Shirt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finds a shirt. But who lost it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you've somehow missed the photo that inspired this, [take a look, it's adorable](http://media.tumblr.com/065cb256072b88bcffbd1491a83fa89c/tumblr_inline_n51pryIlyW1rfrq5v.png).

The timing, Bucky has to admit, is _perfect_.

He's feeling really shitty and needs cheering up. Beth's birthday was yesterday and, surprise surprise, he hadn't been welcome at her sweet sixteen dinner. His parents hadn't wanted him spending time around her after his big announcement. They wouldn't even let him call her, and he hadn't. He'd done what they asked, in case it did any good to be an obedient son. But he figured it was a special occasion, so he called the house and talked his mom into letting him speak to his baby sister for two minutes on her birthday.

And Beth wouldn't come to the phone.

So that sucked a lot.

Now it's disgustingly early in the morning, because he spent the night tossing and turning, and gave up on sleep entirely as soon as the sun rose. So he's glowering at the world with his hands wrapped around his coffee mug, listening to Steve and Sam moving around, getting ready for their pre-work run.

Then Steve walks out of his bedroom and Bucky nearly does a spit take with his coffee.

"Morning Bucky," Steve says. "You're up early."

He _almost_ says something. Hey, at this time of the morning he's a little slow, okay? But Sam appears behind Steve, shakes his head emphatically and puts his finger to his lips. Bucky manages a vague, "Uh, yeah," and stands there basking in the spectacle of Steve Rogers ready to go out for his morning run in a shirt that actually looks a lot like one of his usual running shirts, except that instead of saying Brooklyn College it reads FREE LICKS in large letters across the chest.

It's hilarious. He wants to look at it forever.

Oh, hey, there's his camera on the table. Casually he snags it by the strap, and says to Steve, "You know, the light's really good right now. I should get up this early more often. Can I take a picture of you just to get the effect?"

He manages to keep his face straight, even with Sam cracking up silently by the wall and giving him two thumbs up. Steve looks a little surprised, but he obligingly smiles for the camera while Bucky takes a quick snapshot. And oh yes, that one's going online.

"Thanks, buddy. Have fun out there."

The run doesn't last as long as usual. In fact, barely half an hour has gone by when Bucky hears the sound of voices -- one affronted, the other laughing -- outside, and the door opens to admit the erstwhile runners.

Steve is flushed pink, and not from the exertion. He gives Bucky an accusing glare, plucking at the shirt where it's stretched over his pecks. "Bucky, I can't believe you let me go out wearing this thing."

Bucky chokes. The shirt is damp with sweat and clinging, and the writing stands out starkly against the darkened fabric, like a beacon of promise.

"People wouldn't stop staring at me. Some of them said... _things_. These two girls came up and asked if I was giving or receiving the licks. And he-" he indicates Sam, "-was no help at all."

Sam's laughing so hard he looks like he's going to topple over. "You wanna know the best part?" he says in a choked voice. "He tried to take it off. I thought we were gonna get mobbed."

"You tried to _take it off_?"

"I was gonna turn it inside out," Steve says, hiding his face in his hands. "You're both horrible people. I'm going to shower."

He retreats. Bucky and Sam look at each other and dissolve again into helpless laughter.

"Where did you get it?" Bucky says, once he can breathe.

"Hey, I didn't get it anywhere. I figure it must have gotten mixed in with his stuff at the laundromat."

Which, of course, brings out the Good Samaritan in Steve. After his shower, as he wolfs down about half a box of cereal before work, he says worriedly that the shirt must belong to someone and they'll want it back. "Bucky, if you have a minute today, could you go down there and put up a note saying we found it?"

Put up a note about the shirt. Hmm. He can do that.

Or maybe a poster.

Once Steve and Sam have left for work, Bucky fires up his computer. He doesn't need anything fancy. In fact, the poster takes roughly fifteen seconds to create. First, the photo of Steve in the shirt proclaiming FREE LICKS. Underneath it, in large print, Steve's phone number.

Yeah. That seems to be all the pertinent information.

He hits print, takes the page down to the Laundromat, and tapes it up in pride of place on the back wall.

When Steve calls an hour later, Bucky lets it go to voicemail. The message Steve leaves is succinct and to the point: _"I swear to god, Bucky, when I get home I'm gonna make you sorry you were ever born."_

Bucky smirks at the phone in satisfaction and goes back to researching props for their next shoot. A couple of minutes, later the phone rings again: _"You jerk, go to the laundromat and take that thing down right now."_

At lunch time: _"Bucky! Pick up your phone. This isn't funny."_

Then: _"I'm getting voicemails that are emotionally scarring me. You're going to pay for this."_

Slightly later, from Sam: _"That's evil, man. I'm impressed."_

From Peggy, barely coherent over snorts of laughter. _"Please, please email me a copy."_

Steve again: _"I hate every single person I know."_

By three in the afternoon, Bucky's received a grand total of fifteen increasingly abusive voicemails and texts from Steve, and decides to have mercy.

When he gets to the laundromat, there are a few people sitting on the benches watching their clothes spin, and one guy down at the end, thoughtfully inspecting the poster. As Bucky watches, the guy finishes his perusal, reaches into his back pocket, and pulls out his phone.

Bucky snorts with laughter, but yeah, enough is enough. "Hey!" he calls, hurrying over.

The guy turns. And wow, okay, Bucky might be pretty gone on Steve but he's not blind. Holy shit.

This particular sleazebag lick-seeker looks a few years younger than Bucky, probably still in college. He's _beautiful_. Big brown Bambi eyes; pouty lips that should be illegal; thick, dark hair that’s just begging for Bucky to run his fingers through it; and smooth, perfect skin. Over his Metallica t-shirt, he's wearing what is obviously an obscenely expensive Italian leather jacket, and his jeans are artfully faded and look like they were designed specifically to be peeled off him.

Sadly, he's also the type to call up a total stranger he's seen on a poster in a laundromat. Bucky leans around him and rips the poster down.

The guy makes an abortive grab for it, then glares as Bucky twitches it out of reach. "Hey!" he complains. "I need that."

"No, you really don't," Bucky says, scowling as the guy reaches for the poster again, making _gimme_ type noises. And okay, if this is the level of obsessive creep that has been bugging Steve all day, maybe Bucky feels a little bit bad. "Fuck off. There are no free licks. It's just a prank."

"Gee, you don't say," the guy says. "Colour me surprised. I mean, not that I'd mind, I bet he tastes like apple pie a la mode, but that's not the point. The point is, I came here looking for that shirt."

Bucky stops short. okay, perhaps this is the one person who might legitimately want to call Steve's number. "You telling me that thing's _yours_?" he says. Ignoring the fact that the guy's about half a foot smaller than Steve in every dimension, there's no way someone who dresses in high end designer gear owns that monstrosity.

"Are you fucking kidding me? God no. It belongs to a tragically tasteless friend of mine. Got into my laundry by accident. We had a thing, you know, a shirtless, pantsless thing. Strictly one-night only, he's not really into dudes, got his eye on this smoking hottie in the astrophysics department. Anyway, long story short, his shirt ended up in my stuff, I lost it -- laundry is _so_ not my thing -- he misses it, and he has big baby-blues that do this lost puppy thing when he's sad; it makes me feel like a jerk, and I don't like having feelings. I gotta get that shirt back. It's his favourite. His brother gave it to him." The entire speech is delivered in a smooth rush, without any apparent pause for breath.

"Guess his brother doesn't like him much," Bucky says.

"Good guess," the guy says, utterly deadpan.

Bucky's not sure what to do with that one, so he opts to leave it alone. "Okay," he says grudgingly, "so you weren't calling to be sleazy."

"No, don't get me wrong, I was planning to be _hella_ sleazy. I mean, Jesus Christ, look at him. Besides, I've got an easy in, right? I figure, he stole my laundry. Least he can do is buy me a drink."

"No way is he buying you anything," Bucky says. "Hands off. He's got a boyfriend."

The guy wrinkles his nose. "Shame," he says, not too worried. "Whatever, I can deal. Where's the shirt?"

Which is how Bucky ends up taking an engineering PhD student named Tony Stark back to his apartment.

They talk on the way. Or, mostly, Tony talks and Bucky insults him every few minutes. Tony's ridiculous. As well as being almost unbelievably pretty, he's unbelievably smart, was unbelievably rich until his dad cut off his allowance, and is completely ignorant about simple everyday facts -- like how you have to check to make sure nothing's stuck to the sides of the washer when you take out your clothes.

And the thing is, Tony is obviously a self-centred asshole, but he's such a shameless and charming asshole that Bucky can't help warming to him. So when they get back to the apartment, instead of just giving him the shirt, he hands over a beer. Partly it's nice to have someone new to hang out with. Partly it's good strategic planning. Steve's gonna be _really_ pissed off when he gets home, and Tony will be an effective human shield.

Except with Tony sprawled there on the couch, leather jacket discarded, stupid band t-shirt riding up his stomach, gesturing with his beer bottle as he talks, Bucky's mind is going in a very particular direction.

He's out of the closet now. He's not hiding anymore. But what with being new to this and being completely in love with his best friend, he hasn't really done a whole lot. In fact, since kissing that guy at Pride a few weeks back, he hasn't done anything at all.

And now here's Tony, spread out on his couch looking like a modern update of a renaissance marble. It's impossible not to get distracted. It's impossible not to stare, and to wonder how it would feel to run his fingers over the dusting of fine hair on that strip of skin between shirt and jeans.

Tony's rambling discourse trickles to a halt. He stares right back, grinning as his eyes flick down Bucky's body then back up, then down again, ending up somewhere in the middle. He raises an eyebrow, a smirk spreading over his face. "Okay, so, I get that your lickable buddy Steve won't be buying me a drink today, but if _you_ wanted to buy me one instead I'd gracefully accept the substitute. And 'buy me a drink' is completely a euphemism for no-strings sex, but we can maybe do actual drinks after."

And then he wets his lips with a mesmerising flicker of pink tongue. Bucky is forcibly reminded of the blue-eyelinered sparkly guy from pride weekend, how his lips had been soft and firm, how his body had felt when they danced.

Well, his family have already stopped talking to him because of his (air quotes) lifestyle choices, so he's really got nothing left to lose. He might as well enjoy himself. Steve's dating Sam, there's no way around it, and he's gotta lose his gay virginity sometime.

So five minutes later, they're making out on the couch, and fuck yeah, kissing guys? Still his new favourite thing. Tony's warm and lithe and unexpectedly strong, and he doesn't waste time. Within a few minutes, he's got his shirt off and is getting to work on Bucky's pants.

And that's when Steve walks in the door.

***

It shouldn't be all that embarrassing. It really shouldn't; they've lived together for years, Steve's accidentally seen him in positions just as compromising with girls. But this is with a guy. This is something Bucky actually _likes_. And as he flushes under Steve's gaze, painfully aware of his tousled hair and kiss-red lips and lapful of Tony Stark, all Bucky can think is, _I want this with you, Steve. All of this. I want to do it to you_.

Maybe the incredibly awkward vibe reaches Steve as well, because instead of backing out and giving Bucky a minute to get his pants buttoned up again, he just stares like he's unexpectedly found the Loch Ness monster in his bathtub.

There's a long moment during which neither of them says anything. Tony helpfully buttons Bucky's pants up again and gives him a friendly pat on the crotch. Bucky flinches under the touch, and Tony actually leans in and kisses him on the cheek before turning to Steve with a smirk. "Well hello there," he drawls, his eyes roaming blatantly over Steve’s body.

The words abruptly break Bucky's paralysis. "Steve," he says hoarsely. "Uh. Hi. This is Tony. He came over to pick up his shirt."

Tony hops off Bucky's lap, slinks his way across the room to Steve and holds out his hand, making no attempt whatsoever to hide the unmistakeable line of his erection in his obscenely tight jeans. 

"Yeah. Guess I lost it in the wash. Thanks for finding it for me."

Steve's still standing there with his mouth open, but he closes it hastily, swallows, and shakes Tony's hand in an automatic sort of way, as though he's not really aware of what he's doing. "Um. You're welcome. Sorry… uh, I'm sorry I took it."

"No problem. It worked out for the best," Tony says cheerfully. "I got the shirt back, got a beer, and got a chance to enjoy a little of the local hospitality, which, I have to say, is five star so far." He turns back to Bucky, smirk widening. "Speaking of, we were kind of in the middle of something. Wanna move this to the bedroom, gorgeous?"

And… okay, here's the thing. However much Bucky loves Steve, and he loves Steve with just about everything he has to give, he's still young and gay and horny. For the first time in his life, he has the chance to get closely acquainted with another man's cock. In front of him is an insanely beautiful guy, naked from the waist up and visibly hard, smirking at him shamelessly in a way that promises a wide range of new and intriguing acts. Bucky would like to put his mouth on Tony's nipples, please. Now.

He meets Steve's wide eyes and shrugs helplessly. "Bedroom's good," he says. He knows he has to be blushing just about as much as Steve is, and honestly, he doesn't care.

"Awesome," Tony purrs. "Lead the way. And big guy? You're welcome to join us if you want."

Steve looks from him to Bucky, and if possible goes even pinker.

"No," Bucky says, "he isn't. Come on." He herds Tony forcefully into his room without looking back. His heart gives him one final pang at the thought of Steve standing there watching him, but he tells himself firmly that Steve is with Sam and it's never going to happen, whereas Tony is right here, currently pushing him down onto the bed and crawling on top of him to pick up where they left off. Tony hums happily and grinds down in a way that makes Bucky's eyes flutter closed and drives a little moan from deep in his throat. Oh Christ, this is honestly happening now, holy _fuck_.

For the first time in many, many years, Bucky lets Steve slip out of his mind.


	6. Bucky and the Birthday

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s the Fourth of July. Happy birthday to Steve, the least self-aware person in the universe.

Considering the circumstances of their first meeting some awkwardness is to be expected, but Bucky is surprised at quite how intensely and thoroughly Steve dislikes Tony Stark.

This is Steve. Steve likes people. Steve is nice to everyone.

Except Tony.

They get under each other’s skin. Not all the time, by any means. They're civil for the most part, or at least Steve's civil and Tony cheerfully ignores him. Only occasionally do things explode, occasionally enough that Bucky has weighed the two options: (a) doing whatever it takes to make Steve happy, and (b) having the kind of mind-altering sex that helps him _forget_ about Steve for at least a few moments, and decided that, yes, Tony's worth keeping around.

It's bizarre, because despite the dislike, Steve still manages to do his thing where he honestly _cares_. For Bucky, it's not really an issue that Tony seems to live on blueberries, alcohol, and a permanent sleep deficit. It doesn't get in the way of the orgasms, therefore it's not his problem. Steve, however, once got concerned enough to ask Tony when he last ate an actual meal. And yeah, that escalated quickly, what with Tony's lewd comment about the type of things he liked in his mouth, and Steve's unexpectedly bitchy insinuation about treating people like pieces of meat, and the resulting epic battle of insults, during which Steve slammed around the kitchen, finding ham and cheese and tomatoes and finally shoved the resulting sandwich at Tony, snarling that at least _he_ gave a damn about someone other than himself.

In fact Tony did end up eating the sandwich some time later, in post-coital absentmindedness, and looked a hell of a lot healthier for it. But that's not the point.

The point is that they categorically do not get along.

So when Steve's birthday rolls around and they're planning the obligatory Fourth of July barbeque, Steve invites Tony because he's determined to be the better man if it kills him, and Tony says yes simply because Steve wants him to say no.

"Of course I invited your boyfriend," Steve says through gritted teeth, when Bucky tells him what a moron he's being.

"He's not my boyfriend."

"Your... whatever," Steve huffs, and that's the end of the conversation.

'Boyfriends' is ridiculously far from the truth. They're both in it for the uncomplicated sex. But Tony’s been part of Bucky’s life for a while now, and he’s around more than the average casual hook-up. He sleeps over when he can't be bothered to go home, hangs out with them because he doesn't have a couch in his shithole apartment, shoves his dirty t-shirts in with Bucky's laundry, and generally takes advantage of whatever hospitality he can scrounge, because since Howard Stark took away the bank account he has no money. At all.

Steve, who worked all the way through high school and college, thinks he should get a damn job, but that would require basic timekeeping skills. Tony very rarely even knows what day it is, let alone what time.

Actually, Bucky finds his nights with Tony weirdly reminiscent of being in the closet. Back when he couldn't have guys, he slept with women because they were the best substitute he could get. Now... well, he can't have Steve. Sometimes he lies there pressed up against Tony's warm, sleeping body and thinks about all the ways that this isn't what he wants.

Anyway, back to the inevitable disaster that is Steve's birthday.

Even before the party starts, something's not quite right. From the moment Steve comes out of his room, from the moment Bucky dumps a pack of patriotic stars and flags confetti over his head and wraps him up in a birthday hug, he seems slightly off. It's hard to put a finger on -- he wolfs down the pancakes Sam cooks, exclaims over his presents, and throws himself into party preparations with enthusiasm, carrying chairs and cushions up to the roof, hanging up lights and decorations and pretending not to notice the extremely obvious cake box on the coffee table. But every now and then, Bucky catches him in a moment of unexpected stillness, staring into space. And he's jumpy, touchy. Little hitches -- Where's that cooler gone? How come we're out of juice? -- seem to frustrate him more than they normally would.

He perks up as people start to arrive. Steve is a popular guy and his parties draw a crowd. He's always honestly delighted at how many of his friends want to wish him a happy birthday, always gives a cute little speech to thank everyone for coming, blows out the candles on his cake with a big cheesy grin, and has something nice to say to every single person. He does find it tough being the centre of attention all day, though. It's Bucky's job to make sure he has a bit of space so they get some chill-out time, just the two of them -- or three of them, since Sam's been in the picture.

It's going okay until Tony arrives.

It's not that Tony gets in the way, exactly. He doesn't try to stick with Bucky the whole time. He mingles like a pro, only coming over occasionally to shamelessly grope Bucky's ass. His jokes are on the right side of the line between funny and offensive, and though he’s definitely drunk he's also extremely good at seeming sober. It's more that Steve seems to be aware of him all the time. Always a little on edge, bristling slightly whenever he's near, keeping an ear cocked to his conversations. Not letting himself be coaxed away into the quiet places Bucky finds.

Eventually, Bucky gives up on corralling Steve and focuses on Tony instead. If he can keep Tony occupied, that'll stop Steve from worrying, and Steve has Sam to keep him company anyway. So once he's made sure everyone has drinks and Sam and Steve are manning the grill, he snags Tony by the collar and drags him off to a sheltered corner between the door to the stairwell and one of the half-dead potted trees that decorate the roof.

Tony makes a surprised noise, looking uncertain -- even he's noticed Steve's mood. Bucky grins at him to show everything's okay. There's no point in blaming him. Really, the whole thing is mostly Steve's fault for being so stubborn, but it's Steve's birthday so he gets a pass. The only thing Bucky can do is swallow down his disappointment that things aren't as easy and fun as other years, telling himself it's not exactly a trial to keep Tony occupied. Because the most reliable way of doing that? Pushing him up against the wall and kissing him.

Tony's a flirty, grabby drunk, and he has no objection to being manhandled. He purrs into Bucky's mouth, "Well hello there, soldier," and then pushes him a little back to run a hand down his chest, over his t-shirt. "Did I tell you you're looking like sex on wheels today? Makes me wanna take you out for a spin."

And fuck, those lips. Those big innocent eyes. He's so fucking cute, which it makes it even hotter knowing the filthy things that come out of his mouth when he's pinned down to the bed. He's also barely nineteen years old, but he gave Bucky absolutely no chance to freak out over that realisation, what with the killer blowjob that came immediately after.

Bucky leans in for another kiss, thinking smugly that operation Occupy Tony is going nicely, until he hears Steve clear his throat pointedly behind him.

"Bucky, you know you're in a public place? If you're going to do _that_ , can you go do it downstairs?"

And okay, _woah_ , time out. Time fucking out, because the way Steve says ' _that'_ makes it perfectly clear that he means the person, not the action. _Do that_. It's possibly the most unpleasant Bucky's heard him be to anyone, ever.

Tony stiffens, but doesn't even pause before drawling, "Oh, I'll do this—" he nips at Bucky's jaw, "wherever the hell I want."

Bucky grabs hastily at Tony’s arm, and by some miracle he manages to catch Sam's eye across the rooftop. They're in serious trouble here. Tony's tendency to treat other people like his own personal playthings drives Steve absolutely nuts, and Steve's handed him the perfect opening to poke at that sore spot until it gushes blood.

"Hey," Sam says, arriving at Steve's elbow like an angel from heaven. "You okay?"

Steve looks around at him, face softening slightly, and opens his mouth to say something. Bucky doesn't wait to hear what it is, just takes advantage of the distraction to drag Tony unceremoniously through the door to the stairwell.

"It's his birthday," he hisses as Tony tries to break free. "All his friends are here, don't you _dare_ go back out there."

Tony spins out of his grasp, smacks the flat of his hand against the closed door and calls Steve an inventive and impressively obscene name.

"Yeah," Bucky admits.

The whole situation is bizarre. This isn't like Steve. Until now the arguments between him and Tony have always started with something harmless and ballooned out of control. But this time, he was... well, pretty much exactly what Tony just called him.

Something's been wrong since this morning. Steve's been completely on edge, and Bucky would really like to know why. But now's not the time. It's damage control time. Sam's probably got Steve covered, so it's only Tony that needs to be talked down. Though in Tony's case, actions speak louder than words, and quite honestly, Bucky's thrumming with tension too and could really use a little release right now.

He runs a hand over Tony's back, feeling his ribs moving in harsh, angry breaths, and says, "So, you wanna go do... _this,_ downstairs?"

Tony huffs out a laugh, relaxing all at once. "Why the fuck not?"

***

And okay, rookie mistake. It should have been a quickie, then he should've kicked Tony out. But Bucky's only human and Tony is incredibly good in bed, and it turned into something long and slow and sensual. Even that wouldn't have been a problem, if Bucky hadn't given into the urge to close his eyes for one minute while he wallowed in the post-coital glow. But he did, and the next thing he knows he's waking up with dried come on his stomach and Tony plastered up against his back, to find that the sky outside the window is turning to dusk.

"Fuck," he says, jerking upright. He fumbles for his phone, and yes, he's skipped out on three hours of Steve's birthday party. "Fuck," he says again, trying to grab for his clothes and shake Tony awake at the same time. Tony rolls over, making sleepy noises of protest. Bucky shakes him again. "Get up, get dressed, get out," he snaps.

The first jeans he finds are Tony's, so he dumps them on Tony's face before finding his own. Except, shit, he needs to shower; he can't go out there like this. Thank God there's nobody in the apartment when he makes a strategic rush for the bathroom and takes the quickest shower of his life. It's nearly eight o'clock. Steve's parties are usually more of a daytime thing, and by this time most people will have gone on to their evening plans, leaving just a few stragglers and Steve's closest friends on the rooftop.

Closest friends. _Fuck_.

When he gets back to the bedroom, Tony's still asleep underneath the designer jeans, unlikely to be moving any time soon. The really annoying thing about that permanent sleep deficit? When he crashes, he's out for the count. Bucky pokes him anyway, without much hope, and then gives up. Once he's done the best he can with his damp hair, he squares his shoulders and heads back up to the roof.

A couple of people give him questioning looks as he emerges from the stairwell, but nobody comes over. The atmosphere is quiet and relaxed, music playing softly and most people sitting on the ground or in the few ancient deckchairs that live up here. Over on the other side of the roof, Steve and Sam are sitting with their backs to the wall, leaning into one another, not talking but looking comfortably intimate.

They both look up as Bucky comes over. Sam says something quiet to Steve and gets to his feet, clapping Bucky on the shoulder as he passes, and goes to join another group of friends, leaving the two of them alone.

There's really nothing good Bucky can say here. _Sorry I wasn't there to take pictures of you blowing out your birthday candles, I fucked a guy you hate and fell asleep with his come all over me instead._

Great.

But Steve doesn't look mad. In fact, he looks sheepish.

"Is Tony okay?" he asks, patting the ground where Sam had been sitting in invitation. "I was a real jerk back there."

"He's fine," Bucky says cautiously.

"Would you tell him I'm sorry? It wasn't his fault. I've had some stuff on my mind today and I wasn't thinking straight."

Bucky lowers himself to sit beside Steve, keeping a little bit of distance between them. It's a relief that Steve's not upset, but it's also even weirder than the rest of the day. "You wanna tell me what's been bothering you?" he asks.

Steve makes a rueful face. "Yes and no. It's difficult." He shifts so they're face to face, and gives this odd, sad little smile. "Bucky, Sam asked me to move in with him."

 _Oh_ , Bucky thinks, and for a moment that's all he can think.

His mind's blank. Distantly, he's aware that there must be a right way to react. If Steve were really just his best friend, rather than his... well, his everything, what would he say? A cheery _'that's great, congratulations'_ or a joking _'man, I can't believe you're ditching me'_? Or would he be legitimately hurt and upset, a shadow of the black dread he's feeling now?

He doesn't know, so he blurts out, "Are you gonna?"

Steve nods slowly. "Yeah. I was thinking about it all day, and I just told him I would."

Thinking about it all day. So that's what had him on edge. Sam must have started the day with birthday sex and a proposal.

Bucky could have told him that it was really terrible timing. There's nothing smart about giving Steve a huge decision to make and then shoving him out into a whole rooftop full of people. He needs to think things through with a bit of space. If Sam had asked, Bucky could have told him that. Could have told him anything and everything about Steve.

He digs his nails into his palms. "Okay. That's good. If it'll make you happy."

"I'm already happy," Steve says, sounding confused and almost guilty at the admission. "It's not about that. I guess it feels like the next step. We've been together for more than a year, so it makes sense. And maybe I'm not sure how it's going to work out, but you have to take risks in a relationship. Besides, Sam wants to, and that's really important to me."

"Yeah. Yeah, that's important."

Steve hazards a smile. "And you're probably sick of having me around being a dick to your boyfriend."

"Not my boyfriend," Bucky says, stamping down on the instant urge to promise, _I'll never see him again, if only it would get you to stay_.

"Yeah, okay, sorry," Steve says, and sighs. "I feel like a real jerk for leaving you."

"No big deal. I can cover the rent until I find a new roommate."

"Bucky—"

"I know," Bucky says, and fuck, this is the hardest part. Telling the truth, without telling too much of it. "It'll be weird, huh? I'm really gonna miss you."

Steve looks relieved, of all things. "Me too," he says, and Bucky thinks, _no, not true_. There's no comparison. If Steve was going to miss Bucky the way Bucky's going to miss him, he wouldn't leave.

As the moment stretches out, the silence is suddenly broken by a sharp noise. Green light blossoms off to the north. It's almost full dark now, time for the first illegal fireworks to be set off on rooftops and in back yards. Automatically they both resettle themselves to watch, leaning back against the wall. This time their shoulders touch, and after a while Bucky rests his head against Steve's shoulder and Steve slips an arm around him.

"Bucky?"

"Yeah?"

"You think I'm doing the right thing?"

And yes, he probably is. It's the right thing for him. The fact that Bucky feels like his heart's being gouged out of his chest with an ice cream scoop isn't really relevant.

"Sure. You and Sam are really good together. You should go for it."

"Yeah," Steve says uncertainly.

He's feeling guilty for leaving, Bucky realises, and that's really not fair. The right thing to do would be to find some way to make things normal, maybe grab a slice of cake and drag Steve over to join Peggy and Phil as they listen to Clint sing along with the music. But he can't bear to break up this moment. "Hey, Steve?" he says instead. "Happy Birthday."

Steve makes a pleased huff and buries his nose briefly in Bucky's hair. "I guess it is, yeah," he says.

Later, when Sam and Steve have gone back to Sam's place, probably to celebrate Steve's decision with a bit more privacy, Bucky sees off the last few guests and goes back to the apartment. He strips off his t-shirt as he walks through the living room, dumps it on the coffee table, unbuttons his jeans as he kicks the bedroom door shut behind him, and crosses the room to his bed, stripping off the rest of his clothing as he goes. Naked, he burrows under the covers and lets himself gasp in a breath that seems to fill his lungs properly for the first time since Steve broke the news.

"Fuck," Tony says sleepily next to him. "You're having feelings. I don't like it when you have feelings." He yawns. "Is this the thing where you're pining over Captain Stick-up-the-butt?"

"Go to hell," Bucky says, not bothering to wonder exactly when Tony figured it out. He rolls over, letting Tony latch onto him and snuggle close. That's Tony Stark in a nutshell. If he wants affection he acts like it's his god-given right, but he'll disappear the second he gets bored. Right now Bucky doesn't care. The touch of human skin is wonderfully comforting, even if the skin itself belongs to a selfish asshole.

"Well, Barnes," Tony mumbles into his neck, "between being in love with that jackass and fucking me, I think we can conclude that you have really shitty taste in men."

And if shitty taste can be defined as making yourself as miserable as humanly possible, Bucky has to agree.


	7. Bucky’s Theological Discussion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky is a good big brother, Steve is a good friend, and Bethany Barnes is doing religion better than many.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the part that deals with sexual assault of a minor character. There's nothing graphic, and it doesn't go further than groping. If you need to skip the chapter it won't affect the story much overall.

When his phone rings at ten to midnight a few weeks after the fateful birthday, Bucky assumes it's Tony. There aren't a lot of people who would call him so late on a weeknight. Steve's the only other one. Since moving day, Steve's often called or texted at the loneliest times of night. It's nice, but it makes Bucky feel guilty as hell. Steve's calling so often because he's worried, and that sucks because he should be off living his perfectly couple-y life with Sam, not checking in with his pathetic abandoned roommate every 24 hours. But this call is unlikely to be Steve, since he did the obligatory check-in when they met up at lunchtime. They ate bagels together in the park, and Bucky got the breath half squeezed out of him in a hug which had felt shamefully, warmly wonderful.

So it's gotta be Tony on a booty call. The thought of that isn't nearly as appealing as talking to Steve, but seeing Tony would probably be better than the shitty late night movie Bucky's currently slumped in front of. It's a horror story about murderous identical twins, and it's still less creepy than the silence of the apartment. He stares blankly at the screen for a couple of seconds while he tries to decide whether it's worth putting up with Tony's shit for an orgasm, or whether he'd rather just go to bed. Orgasm wins, as it often does, so he digs around under the cushions until he finds the phone and glances at the caller ID.

It's not Tony.

 _Beth_ , the screen says, superimposed over a picture of his baby sister with her wild dark curls and her round cheeks, sticking her tongue out at the camera.

His hands are shaking as he picks up.

"Beth?"

"Bucky, can you come get me?" she says. Not even a hello. There's a tremble in her voice, scared, tearful. Protective big brother instincts flare up instantly, carrying his heart into his mouth.

"Where are you?" he says, already grabbing for his shoes and his wallet.

She gives him an address in Williamsburg. A party, a friend of a friend, and she really wants to leave, she tells him, stumbling over the words. There was this guy and she wants to get away, can he please... _Please_.

She's been drinking. Little Beth -- not so little anymore. She's seventeen now. When the hell did she get to be seventeen? Has it really been that long? Seventeen, and she's drunk at a party and frightened enough to ask for help from her disgraced gay brother.

"Are you someplace safe right now? Bethy, did he hurt you?"

"I locked myself in the bathroom," she says, and he hears her breath hitch as she starts to cry. "I felt sick so I wanted to go home and I went to find my coat and he was there and he put his hand up my skirt, he said... he said I _wanted_ it. I ran in here and I don't know if he's still outside."

By some miracle, he manages to keep his voice steady as he says soothing, reassuring things about how it's going to be okay, nothing bad's going to happen, he's on his way.

She chokes on her tears. "Bucky, Mom's going to kill me if she finds out I'm here. I said I was going to Maria's."

"She won't hear it from me, kiddo." Even if he wanted to tell, his mother won't take his calls until he renounces his sinful ways.

But now's not the time to be thinking about that. What he really needs to think about is how the fuck he's going to get to Williamsburg at this time of night. What if he can't find a cab? It must be an hour to walk, and he's not going to wait for a fucking bus to go get his sister. Goddammit.

Time to call for reinforcements.

Steve's phone is answered by Sam, sleepy and grouchy and unhelpful. It takes a whole infuriating thirty seconds to get him to wake Steve the fuck up, but once that's done Steve's on the case in an instant.

"Should I go straight there or pick you up?"

"Go straight there."

He calls Beth back. She's still crying, getting panicky because someone came to bang on the bathroom door. He keeps talking to her while he hunts for a cab. It takes him what feels like forever, but is probably less than fifteen minutes, and it's barely gone two blocks when Beth's nervous wincing at each new knock at the door suddenly changes to a cry of relief. There's a scrabble as she crosses the room, then the phone's picking up the sound of her voice and the lower pitch of Steve's. He must have broken some speeding laws to get over there so quickly.

Thank fuck, Bucky thinks, and flops back against the seat.

Beth's waiting with Steve outside the nondescript brownstone when the cab pulls up. She's sitting on Steve's bike, drooping against him as though it's mostly his arm around her keeping her upright at all. Bucky doesn't know which one of them he wants to hug more. He wants to hang onto Beth the way he had when she was a bratty four-year-old crying over a skinned knee, and he wants to wrap his arms around Steve and tell him he's a goddamn hero.

They both look up as he approaches, and Steve says, "Hey," with a smile that makes Bucky's heart clench with _I love you, thank you, thank you_ , and then Beth throws herself at him and launches into speech, starting with "Hi Bucky," and progressing through, "Please don't tell Mom," and "Can I stay with you tonight?" and, "I can't believe that guy, _yeuch_ ," with absolutely no reference to the fact that she hasn't spoken to him in more than a year.

When she finally lets him go, he gets a good look at her, and it's a disconcerting sight. She isn't the baby sister he remembers. No longer skinny and gawky, she has the smooth curves of a grown woman. She seems taller, too, though it may be because she's wearing little kitten heels rather than schoolgirl flats. She's wearing makeup, though not very effectively -- it's smudged to hell, and even in the dingy light from the streetlamps he can tell there was way too much of it to begin with. Oh, and she's drunk. That's definitely new.

"You okay?" he asks her. "Bethy, that guy...?"

"I'm okay." She smiles, a little wobbly but real. "Steve threatened to call the cops and bawled him out so hard he almost pissed himself, and a whole bunch of girls started calling him rapist scum and he left."

"You're my _fucking hero_ ," Bucky tells Steve, and hugs the hell out of him.

A small part of him wishes he'd gotten there first, so he could have broken both the bastard's legs and made him grovel on the floor and apologise to Beth through a mouth missing most of its teeth, but that probably would have ended in unfortunate things like jail time for assault.

Steve hugs him back just as tightly. "I _should_ have called the cops," he says, "but I guess it wouldn't have done any good. Besides, I was too mad to think straight." There's an angry tension in him as Bucky runs a hand down his back.

"Wouldn't have done any good," Bucky confirms. He's not dumb. The chance of a guy being convicted of anything on the word of a drunk seventeen-year-old girl is miniscule, and he can only imagine the shit Beth would have to go through to get the police to take it seriously. No, they're not going to the cops. He's not taking her anywhere but back to his apartment, and in the unlikely event that she wants to press charges in the morning, well... he'll try and persuade her not to.

Fuck this fucking world.

Steve gives him another squeeze and lets him go. "You guys better go before you run up a gigantic fare," he says, looking over at where the cab's idling by the kerb. "I'll meet you back at home. Um. Back at the apartment."

That's when Bucky realises it's the middle of the night and Steve doesn't even live with him anymore. Sam's gotta be waiting. And he'd practically _ordered_ Steve to come, not even a please, just, _"Beth's in trouble, I need you to go pick her up from Williamsburg"._ Of course Steve helped without question, because that's what he does. But now that the emergency's over, there's no justification for making him stay any longer.

"You should go back to your place," he says. "I got this from here."

"Doesn't Steve live with you?" Beth says, looking confused.

"No, he lives with his boyfriend." And isn't that fun to say.

Her eyes go wide. "You're gay too?" she asks Steve.

"He's bi," Bucky snaps. "Steve, go on home. We're good here, and we've got brother-sister stuff to talk about."

Steve looks surprised, and yeah, it's a pretty implausible excuse, because he's known Beth since she was born and is almost as much her brother as Bucky is, but he nods slowly, taking the out so he can go back to his boyfriend and his bed. "Okay. I guess you guys have a lot to catch up on. I'll get out of your hair."

"Yeah."

Steve gives Beth a goodbye hug, and Bucky a smile (which Bucky feels weirdly bereft about considering they were hugging literally a minute earlier). Then he wheels his bike around and drives off.

Bucky's left alone with his drunk sister. And _fuck_ , he totally hasn't got this from here, and he has no idea how to do brother-sister stuff with Beth anymore, and basically he really wishes Steve would come back.

But, first things first, he needs to get Beth home. She's not at the stage of passing out or throwing up, so he's not too worried about her -- except for the part where she lied to their mother and got drunk at a party in Williamsburg with people she doesn't even know, because _what the hell_? Last time he saw her she was a well-behaved, studious fifteen-year-old.

He pours her into the cab and climbs in after her. She's clingy, leaning against him, and he pulls her close and hugs her, partly to reassure himself that she's okay, and partly because there's a chance she'll hate him again once she sobers up, so he might as well get a hug while he can.

Once they're home, he makes her drink water and wash off the make-up (seriously, he needs to take her down to the studio for a crash course with Jenny the make-up artist). To his eyes she looks almost like a child again, sitting up in bed in Steve's old room, with her slim frame swimming in a well-worn t-shirt and a pair of sweatpants. Perhaps she feels something similar herself, because she looks up at him with all the seriousness of the slightly drunk, and says, "This feels weird. Like when I was little and you used to read me bedtime stories. You remember _Goodnight Moon_?"

It was her favourite. He can still practically quote the damn thing, he read it so often. Back when he was a middle-schooler and she was tiny, she used to make a huge fuss about who would read her bedtime story, and if she demanded him then he had to do it, like it or not. He hasn't thought about it in a long time. It used to be incredibly annoying, but looking back it's a happy memory -- her all tucked into bed, cuddled up under the comforter and joining in on the words.

"Sure I remember."

"I loved that book."

"You were such a pain. You made me read it twice every time."

"Bucky..." she says, and then looks up at him, eyes half-hidden under her messy curls, smiling a smile that's a little drunk and a lot sleepy. "You know in the bible where it says _'God is love_ '?"

"Yeah."

She gives a little snuffle that turns into a giggle. "All the gay people on the news always talk about that part, so I read the chapter, and you know how it ends? It says, _'The one who loves God should love his brother also.'_ " She wrinkles her nose at him. "Seriously, that's the last line. I was just, like, wow, okay, that is so not subtle. But I took the hint."

"Oh," Bucky says, feeling strangely numb.

"I was mad at you after you told mom and dad about the gay stuff."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"It sucked so much at home. Mom was crying all the time. I was just, like, why did you have to do that? Why did you have to do something so sinful, and make mom upset, and make me upset, and get yourself damned to hell?" She swallows and tugs the covers around herself. "I didn't like thinking of you burning. But now I think maybe it's not so terrible. I mean, I lied to Mom about tonight and that's a mortal sin. I do it all the time, and I'm not even sorry. I don't confess it and I take the Eucharist anyway, and all that's just as bad as being gay."

"Being gay isn't bad, Bethy."

"That's not the point," she says, even though in his opinion it's exactly the point. "I just want you to know that if you're going to burn in hell I'll probably be there too, but I don't think you are. Some of the stuff I do, the bible says it's bad but I feel like God forgives me even if I don't confess and repent. Like... it doesn’t matter too much to him really. And you're a good brother, you know? I knew you'd come get me tonight, and that's important, even if you do other stuff that's wrong. Anyway, the Bible says I'm supposed to love you no matter what, so I think Mom and Dad are going against His will by not letting me see you. I told mom that and she got really mad. And I told her she was a bitch for being so horrible to you. I thought she was going to hit me."

"You called Mom a bitch?"

"Yes. I called her a stupid bitch and I got grounded for a month."

"Beth!"

"She _is_ , though."

"You shouldn't call her that," Bucky says, staring at her, surprised and unsettled. His mom's his _mom_. She's not a bad person, she's just... confused.

"I don't care whether I _shouldn't_ ," Beth says. "You shouldn't have sex with men but I bet you do it all the time."

"Oh my _God_ ," Bucky says, because firstly, wow, Beth is leaping into rebellion with both feet. His own drift away from Catholicism in his teenage years had been a gradual sort of scepticism, treated very diplomatically by all parties. His parents were probably well aware that once he left home he didn't really do the church thing anymore, but nobody mentioned it as a problem up until the big gay reveal. Whereas Beth's violent wrestling with the logic of it all seems to be blowing up in everyone's faces.

And secondly, his little sister should not even think about his sex life.

She smiles smugly at him. "You just took the lord’s name in vain. You _shouldn't_ do that either, but you did, so you can quit lecturing me. _Everyone_ can quit lecturing me. I can read the bible just as well as Mom or Dad, or anyone. Tons of priests don't agree with each other, which means they don't always get it right either. I'm going to make up my own mind. And that means I'll call Mom a bitch if I want to."

It's way too late at night for theological discussions between a gay atheist and his drunk Catholic sister. "You are so annoying," Bucky says, sitting down on the edge of the bed and wrapping his arms around her, squeezing her tight enough to make her wriggle and complain. "Why did I even miss you?"

"You missed me?" she says, like it's a surprise.

"Of course I missed you, dummy."

He tells her about the birthday cards he bought her and didn't send, the mother's day flowers he did send, even though he knew they'd go straight in the trash, standing outside the church on Christmas day listening to the singing, the huge folder of photos on his computer he can't bear to look at.

"I missed you, too," she says. "Even when I was mad at you I really missed you," and she hugs him hard, hanging onto him for long enough that he's pretty sure she's dozing off against his shoulder. He prods her to make sure, and she barely responds, but when he tries to leave her to sleep she won't let him go. Really, that's fine by him. He lies down on top of the covers next to her and turns out the light.

"Bucky?" she says, sleepily in the dark.

"Yeah?"

"God loves you. I know you don't even believe in him, but he does. He loves you and Steve and all the gay people. That's what I believe."

And oddly enough, Bucky can take a little bit of comfort in that.


	8. Everyone Pines and Angsts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is the bit where everyone’s really unhappy. Don’t worry, it gets better. Just… not quite yet.
> 
> Also, yeah, sorry Sam.

The day starts out really great.

They don't plan it; it just happens. Steve calls at lunch time to say his office is closed because of a water leak, and Bucky thinks, what the hell, they don't have a shoot, he's only got scut work; he can take off early if he promises to make up the hours from home the next few evenings. So they grab a bagel together and hit up MoMA, where there's an exhibition of Matisse cut-outs that Steve's been dying to see, and another of 60s magazine covers that Bucky's already seen but gets just as excited about the second time around.

They spend the whole afternoon immersed in images. Afterwards, they drink disgustingly sweet bubble tea and ride the subway back to Brooklyn, arguing about clothes and collages and everything they saw, with Bucky getting all up in Steve's face and waving the booklet from the fashion exhibition at him to make a point, both of them being totally obnoxious and drawing baffled stares from the people around them. At the subway station it's time to part ways, because Bucky really ought to start catching up on the work he missed, but he's having too much of a good time.

"I'll walk with you," he says.

Steve wrinkles his nose. "You gonna talk about fashion the whole way?"

"Damn straight I am," Bucky says, bumping shoulders with him. And he does, hamming it up just to make Steve groan and try to shove a hand over his mouth. The walk ends up being less a walk and more a half-mile-long scuffle, and by the time they get back to Steve's, they're both laughing like fools.

"Wanna come in?" Steve says, punching in the building code. "I'm gonna sit in the yard and sketch anyway. Might as well draw your dumb face."

"Will there be beer?"

"There could be beer."

Sitting in the sun drinking beer with Steve? If he lives to be a million, Bucky's never going to turn that offer down.

They go upstairs to grab drinks and snacks and Steve's sketchbook. Bucky likes the apartment. It's Steve-and-Sam's place, but when they're hanging out just the two of them, it feels almost like it's just Steve's place. Even when Sam's there, it's so full of Steve's familiar belongings and Steve's personality that Bucky feels perfectly comfortable there. The block it's in is nice, too, newish, built around a central courtyard with scrubby grass, a couple of benches, and a jumble of bicycles off to one side. The yard is a suntrap during the day, and stays warm all evening. That's where they go, for Steve to sit on a bench with his sketchbook and Bucky to sprawl on the grass luxuriating in the last of the sun.

"Lose the sunglasses. And quit moving," Steve says, pencil scratching as he roughs out the shapes.

"I have to move. I'm drinking my beer. You know what I look like, anyhow," Bucky says, but he puts the bottle down, takes off his shades and rearranges himself with his head tilted so the light falls on his face the way Steve wants.

He likes it when Steve looks at him.

There are people coming and going in the courtyard, so it's not until Sam's a few feet away that Bucky even registers he's there.

"Hi Steve," Sam says. "Bucky."

There's something weirdly flat about his voice.

"Hi," Steve says. "Jeez, I didn't realise it had gotten so late."

"Guess you've been busy."

"Yeah, we have. It was a good day, right Buck?"

"Yeah," Bucky says, feeling suddenly awkward as he looks up at Sam. "It was good. Steve can tell you about it; I gotta make a move. Work to catch up on."

And maybe it's an abrupt exit, but there was a weird vibe going on there. Besides, he does need to do some work.

He's barely out of the building, when the sun, low in the sky now, hits him full in the face, making him duck his head and blink. Dammit. He pats his pockets for his shades, comes up empty. _Left them behind, genius._

Rolling his eyes at himself, he punches in the code and heads back inside. He got those shades for free from a big time photographer friend. They're last season's, but they're still $300 Armani sunglasses and he'd be pretty dumb to lose them.

Through the open door to the yard, he can see Steve on the bench, Sam beside him. They're facing away from the door, but as he makes to step outside, he can hear Sam's voice clearly.

"You know this thing where Bucky's over here half the time and you're on the phone with him the other half? I think it's something we need to talk about."

Bucky freezes

"We already talked about it," Steve says, sounding stubborn and a little defensive. "I told you, I'm worried about him. It's only for now, until things get settled."

Okay, forget the sunglasses, Bucky thinks, bolting back into the entranceway. He's just fine without them. He's fine if they get stepped on by a kid or eaten by a dog.

Sam's next words follow him down the hall.

"Steve, look me in the eye and tell me this isn't a problem."

 _Fuck_.

As he stands out in the street once again, blinking in the light, he wishes desperately for the ability to rewind the past half-minute so he could just not have heard that. It's not like he doesn't know why Steve's been calling and texting so often. He's known from the very beginning. He knew the moment Steve said he was moving out, when he saw that uncertain, guilty look on Steve's face, and when he found himself unable to smile. Of course Steve's worried, and Bucky should be ashamed of himself for letting it happen. He _is_ ashamed, but that never stopped him from taking advantage.

He knows it isn't okay to take up all of Steve's time just because he finds it hard to be alone. He knows he shouldn't accept every single invitation and make any excuse to keep Steve on the phone for another five minutes. He shouldn't cling onto Steve like a kid clinging to a security blanket. He knows it's not okay, and he did it anyway because he's selfish and he can't bring himself to let Steve go.

_Look me in the eye and tell me this isn't a problem._

Yes. It's a goddamn problem.

The streets are busy as he weaves his way through them, and the late August heat that had seemed so pleasant just minutes ago is now stifling. He trudges along under the bright blue sky with his arms wrapped around himself, eyes fixed on the dusty sidewalk. _Move on_ , he tells himself. That's what grown-ups do. Move on, deal with it, get over it.

He needs to learn how to get out of bed every day without thinking about when he's going to see Steve. He has to untangle their lives so they can become normal friends who see each other a couple of times a week and comment on each other's Facebook statuses. Texts every now and then to say hi, not every day to say goodnight. Lunches once a week, maybe, not whenever they can.

As he turns corner after corner, scuffing his feet in the dust, he tries to imagine his life without Steve at the centre of it. He needs hold it all together on his own. He can focus on work, push for solo projects, even if it's just boutique websites. He can keep his evenings busy somehow, go for drinks with the friends that are more his than Steve's, so they don't cross paths, take up Clint's offer to teach him archery. And there's Tony, of course, who's usually a decent distraction from all the shit in his life.

He really needs to forget right now.

When Tony picks up the phone, it's with a distracted, "Yeah?" and a yawn that means he's probably ready to fall asleep over whatever he's working on.

Bucky scrubs at his face with the back of his hand. "You wanna?" he says.

There's a long pause before Tony says, "You're having feelings again. You promise not to cry?"

"Fuck you."

"No, seriously, not if you're gonna cry."

"Why do you give a shit, anyway? You'll still get my mouth on your dick."

"Hmm," Tony says sceptically. "Okay, I'll be over in twenty. But you owe me a blowjob for every tear you shed."

Bucky growls into the phone and hangs up. Whatever else might change in his life, Tony will always be a self-centred asshole.

***

When Steve calls the next day, Bucky says, "I'm kinda busy right now, buddy. I'll call you back later, okay?"

Then he sits in the apartment clutching the phone until midnight, and forces himself to go to bed.

That's step one in the master plan.

He can't _not_ see Steve at all, but he can make their lunches into rushed things, "Gotta get back to work, great to see you, we should do this next week sometime." He can cancel their plans last minute, "Sorry, something came up," so days slip by without them meeting. He can go to bars in the evening where the music's so loud he doesn't hear his phone, and shoot off a text later in response to the missed calls, _Hey, had an awesome night out, you should have been there_ , even though he hadn't invited Steve to come in the first place.

It's become like a mantra. _Normal friends see each other a couple of times a week._ He keeps a mental tally. Coffee after work. Movie night at his place, with the whole gang there. That's two. That's it for another week.

There are too many empty hours left over.

He's maybe drinking a little more than he should. Sometimes Tony takes the glass out of his hand, saying, "Don't drown poor little Jimmy, Barnes, or you'll be no use to me at all." That's not a good sign. When Tony Stark thinks you're drinking too much, it's time to re-evaluate your life choices. Bucky does, and decides that his life sucks, and his choices suck, and he needs another drink.

Steve just won't quit. He keeps calling, keeps texting even though Bucky only responds to one in five. He hovers at Bucky's side when they meet up as a group, even though Bucky tries to talk to everyone else more than he talks to Steve, doing his best to project, _look, I'm fine. I don't need you. I'm fine._

Sam still looks at them funny when they're together, and that stings, because Bucky's doing his best here. He doesn't know what more he can do.

It's the day after an evening of Sam's funny looks that he meets Steve for coffee. (One evening at a bar, one coffee. That's two.) The first thing Steve says once they've got their drinks is, "Bucky, please tell me what's going on. Did I do something?"

"What do you mean?" Bucky says, keeping his eyes on his latte.

"You're not taking my calls."

"That's because you call me every five minutes, Steve. I can't spend my whole life talking to you." Shit, that came out way harsher that he'd intended. Steve's sitting there with his mouth open, like he has no idea what to say. "Sorry," Bucky says hurriedly. "I'm sorry. I'm kinda stressed, is all. I've been really busy with work, and other stuff. And Tony. I just don't have a lot of time. You understand, right?"

"Yeah," Steve says, still looking bewildered, with a large side order of hurt. "Yeah, I'll try not to call so often."

"Thanks," Bucky says. "Great."

 _Fuck_. This is all going so wrong.

He escapes as soon as he can. Outside the coffee shop he walks a block in the wrong direction, ducks into the quiet of an alleyway and leans against a dumpster beneath a rickety fire escape, sucking in air and wondering if he's going to throw up. He's shaking. Christ. Not taking Steve's calls is one thing, but _telling_ Steve not to call? Saying he has better things to do than talk to his best friend? He feels like he just blasted a gaping hole in the foundation of his life.


	9. Bucky Has Poor Impulse Control

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> By this point everyone involved has been pushed a little bit too far. It all blows up in their faces.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Extra warning for not-terribly-serious injury.

It's pure chance that he runs into Peggy, down by the park at lunchtime on a Sunday. He's roaming around the streets with his camera, nominally testing out a new wide-angle lens. Really, the aim is to kill time in a way that means he doesn't have to interact with other people. Looking at the world through a lens sets it at a distance. From the other side of the glass, he can almost forget the fact that the last time he saw Steve was a week ago, and Steve hasn't called once in all that time. Yes, that's exactly what Bucky had asked for, exactly what's supposed to happen, but it doesn't make it any better.

Steve hasn't called.

It doesn't matter. He's doing fine. He's still going out, meeting friends, getting out of bed every day, coping, and if he has this bizarre desire to find Sam and Steve and punch them both in the face, well... he hasn't _done_ it, has he?

He actually catches Peggy on film before he sees her for real. He spots her on the display screen when he's checking back through the last couple of photos, and when he looks up in surprise she's right there in front of him, hands on her hips.

"Bucky," she says, typically unimpressed and disapproving. Then her eyes fix on his face, and she frowns. "Good lord, you look like hell."

"Thanks. Same to you."

She raises one perfect eyebrow at him. Okay, he hasn’t got a leg to stand on there. She looks exactly as pristine as always, and he really hates her for it. Perfect hair, perfect lipstick, confidence and poise, smart as a whip, that's Peggy Carter. No wonder Steve had adored her when they were together. She was the closest he ever came to what he really wanted, until Sam _fucking_ Wilson.

"I suppose it's this mysterious 'stressful time' you've been going through," she says, the sardonic quotation marks falling effortlessly into place. "Steve told me that's the reason you're ignoring him these days. As usual, he feels the need to make excuses for your appalling behaviour."

"Fuck _off_ , Peggy."

Her eyes soften, which isn't something that often happens when she looks at him. "I didn't believe him," she says, "but I'm changing my mind. What happened to you?"

"Nothing happened."

"You look like a ghost. And Steve doesn't look much better at the moment, which you'd know if you'd actually seen him lately. He's worried about you."

"I'm _fine_ ," Bucky says through gritted teeth. Why doesn't anybody get it? He's fine, everything he's doing is to _prove_ that he's fine. The point is to make Steve _stop_ worrying about him. If Steve hadn't worried so much in the first place, and called the whole damn time, and invited him over too often, none of this would even be happening...

Distatly, underneath the rush of blood in his ears, he hears Peggy say, "You're a long way from fine. Bucky? You really need to breathe."

...none of it would be happening; Sam could have had Steve without any _problem_ getting in the way, and Bucky would still be able to see Steve, would at least get the scraps around the edges of Steve's life, which would be better than nothing. Because that's what he has now. Nothing, nothing, _nothing_.

He just loses it. All the frustration boils over at once, and he lashes out at the closest thing available. Which happens to be a lamppost.

Later, he'll feel like an absolute idiot. He's been doing martial arts for years, he's been drilled over and over in the need for control. He knows perfectly well that he's been off-balance lately, and every minute spent at the gym and the dojo he's been aware of his limits, keeping his training and sparring at a sensible level, never going far enough to hurt himself or someone else. He doesn't _do_ things like this.

Right now, though, he just stares down at his knuckles in confusion, not quite sure what just happened. "Fuck," he says. There's blood welling from the torn skin, but at first he can't feel anything. It's not until he tries to open his hand that the pain blossoms into life. "Ow, Jesus _fuck_."

"Let me see," Peggy says.

He snatches his hand away from her. The movement sends fire shooting through his fingers, all the way up to his wrist, and he gasps out another string of curses. Something's really wrong. He's scraped up his knuckles plenty of times before, and it's never felt like this. And while he doesn't really want to look, he's pretty sure part of his hand is no longer the shape it should be.

"I'm taking you to the emergency room," Peggy says in that infuriatingly no-nonsense voice that sets his teeth on edge and somehow commands his obedience. She's flagging down a cab even as she speaks. He doesn't argue, just climbs into the back seat, cradling his hand to his chest.

At first, it's almost better to have the distraction of real, solid physical pain. At least it gives him something to focus on. As an added bonus, the fact that he's injured means Peggy's stopped asking difficult questions for now, though he's pretty sure she's not going to believe he's fine after this.

Then it really starts to hurt, and nope, he'd rather have the emotional trauma.

By the time they reach the hospital, his hand's swelling fast and crusted with dark blood. It looks awful and it feels worse, though it's not bad enough to let him jump the line of dreary-faced sick people. Peggy sits with him in the waiting area, filling out the paperwork for him -- because of course it's his left hand, he can't write, _shit_ , he obviously won't be able to hold a camera for _weeks_ \-- and complaining that she really has better things to do than play ministering angel to idiotic ex-frat boys. He's pretty sure that ministering angels are supposed to actually minister, not just sit there and bitch, but he knows when to keep his mouth shut. He's also sure ministering angels don't bail once the paperwork's done, but she does.

He's left alone on the cold plastic chair in the bustling ER, hunched in his jacket with his hand resting on his knees, staying as still as possible. The waiting room is more than half full. Busy day, the receptionist had said. Might be an hour wait. Might be more.

He focuses on the greyish floor tiles, because it's better than focusing on the misery around him. Pain, fear, stress, weary boredom, the smell of antiseptic and sickness and blood.

"Hey there," a familiar voice says. "I guess you stepped in a big puddle of stupid this morning, huh?"

As always, Steve lights up a room like sunshine.

Bucky should have known Peggy would call him. Right now, amid the pain and the dismal hum of the ER, it's such an incredible relief to see him. Fuck the master plan of staying away. If Steve's still willing to drop everything and come down here, even though Bucky's been an unmitigated dick to him for weeks, that's something of a miracle.

He manages a shaky smile. "Puddle of stupid? Wonder who could have left one of those around the place. Hate to tell you, Steve, but most guys your age are housebroken."

"Most guys your age have figured out that punching metal poles isn't gonna work out well," Steve says, sitting down in the chair on Bucky’s right and craning to get a look at the injured hand -- which, yeah, is looking even worse. "Oh jeez, Bucky, what did you go and do to yourself?"

"That pole was looking at me funny. We had a disagreement."

"More like you had a disagreement with Peggy, from what she tells me."

"At least I didn't hit _her_ ," Bucky says darkly.

"Yeah, you're a real gentleman," Steve says, with a wry quirk to his mouth that makes Bucky's own smile feel a little more solid.

He's missed Steve so much. Maybe he should keep that distance between them, tell Steve he's fine on his own, but... no. Under the circumstances, he's cutting himself a little slack. Just for now, he's allowed to have this.

Waiting's not so bad with Steve's hand resting gently on his back, careful not to jolt anything, and Steve's voice talking on about nothing important. It doesn't feel like too long until his name gets called. The doctor who examines him does some very unpleasant prodding at his hand and sends him down for an x-ray, and then up to orthopaedics. Turns out he did a real number on himself, cracked something and broke something else. That leads to more prodding -- less unpleasant this time due to the joys of local anaesthetic -- and another x-ray for good measure, and then finally the doc slaps a cast on his hand, gives him a sling and a whole bunch of painkillers, and sends him home.

Despite the anaesthetic, by the time they get in the cab he feels like shit. He's very glad Steve's there to handle all the things that require coherent thought, and also the ones that require two hands, which between them add up to almost everything. The thought of digging a twenty out of his wallet to pay the cab driver seems pretty damn impossible, and he's less than confident of his ability to open his own apartment door.

Once Steve's located the keys in Bucky's back pocket, he lets them both in and deposits Bucky on the couch. Bucky listens to him rummage around in the freezer for a bag of frozen vegetables to use as an ice pack. He can't remember ever buying frozen vegetables, but go figure. By that time, his hand's hurting again, so they break out the Percocet. He's soon dopey as hell and dizzy with an edge of nausea. Apparently these 'good drugs' people talk about? Not all that much fun. But despite the discomfort, his brain keeps latching onto the fact that Steve's there on the couch beside him, and that really makes up for a whole lot.

"Thanks for doing this," he says, as he relaxes against Steve's side.

"It's not a chore, Buck," Steve says. "If you hurt yourself I want to be here. Just promise you'll _call_ me next time, okay? I don't want to hear from Peggy that you're in the hospital. You call me right away."

"Yeah," Bucky says, warm and a little hazy. "I will."

Steve flips on the TV and channel-surfs until he finds some ridiculous movie with beautiful people and spikey aliens, and they sit there gently mocking it and laughing, just like old times.

Then Steve's phone rings.

"Huh," he says, and picks up hastily. "Sam?" Slowly the laughter drains from his face. "Oh god, I forgot. I'm with Bucky. He broke his hand. I had to bring him back from the hospital--" He breaks off, pressing his lips together as he listens. "...No, it isn't. You're right. You're right, I shoulda called." He rubs at the back of his neck with his free hand, face scrunched up in a worried frown. "I'm sorry. ...Sam, don't-- _Sam_. No, no, jeez. I can still... I'm leaving now, I'll -- Hello?"

He drops his hand and stares down at the phone. "Oh boy."

"What happened?"

"Bucky, will you be okay if I leave you here? I'll come back later if I can."

"Yeah," Bucky says. "Yeah, sure. You don't have to come back; I'm fine. What's going on? Are you and Sam okay?"

Steve's mouth twists. "No, not so much. Not for a while."

"Shit. Steve, I... I'm sorry." He cringes internally. Peggy said Steve had been looking unhappy. No fucking wonder. He'd been going through a rough patch with Sam, and Bucky hadn't even known.

"Things haven't been great since the move, is all," Steve says. "Look, I really gotta go."

He doesn't go instantly. He spends a couple of hurried minutes fussing, making sure Bucky has his meds and knows when to take them, that there's ice for another ice pack, and that Bucky's hand is looking as good as could be expected. Then it's a hasty, "Okay, see you later," and the door closes behind him.

Bucky goes to the window and watches him jog away along the sidewalk that's now damp with rain, reflecting the streetlights back up at him. _Shit_ , he thinks fiercely. This is all his fault. Again. And it's not just the fact that his clinginess messed everything up. He was around too much, and then, when Steve needed a friend, he wasn't there at all.

Great. _Great_. He's a terrible person. He messed up Steve's relationship, he was possibly the least supportive friend on the planet, and he's the kind of idiot who's so bad at dealing with emotion that he punches a lamppost and breaks his own hand. Sam Wilson doesn't punch lampposts. Sam's terrifyingly well-adjusted.

Bucky takes himself back to the couch and flips clumsily through the channels until he finds a wildlife documentary with baby lion cubs. It's perfect pity party material. They're cute as hell, and one of them dies.

Luckily he keeps a box of Kleenex on the coffee table.

He dozes off once the documentary ends, and stumbles through nebulous opiate-tinged dreams, until he's brought sharply back to awareness by a knock at the door. Groggily, he slips his arm back into its sling and stumbles to his feet. Jeez, he _told_ Steve not to come back. What the hell does the guy think he's playing at?

After a couple of tries, he gets the door open. Steve's standing on the mat, soaked to the skin and shivering. He's got a backpack slung over one shoulder.

"Uh...?" Bucky says, and steps back from the door to let him in.

Steve gives him a small, pained smile. "Sam and I broke up," he says, dumping his bag on the floor and wiping away the trickles of rainwater that are dripping from his hair and running down his cheeks. "Can I come home?"


	10. All’s Well That Ends Well(ish)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve finally figures things out (with a little help) and the pining comes to a close.

"You broke up?" Bucky says. _Does not compute_ , his drug-fuzzed brain tells him. Steve's with Sam. It's one of his mantras. One of the constants of his universe.

Steve kicks off his shoes and goes wordlessly into the bathroom, comes out again towelling his hair, and goes into Bucky's room. Bucky stands and stares at the half-closed door, unmoving, until Steve re-emerges, dressed in a pair of his sweatpants and a t-shirt that's slightly too tight.

"Bucky," he says, not quite meeting Bucky's eyes, "I need to talk to you about something."

"Okay," Bucky says, because he's still reeling and really can't think of any other response.

"Come sit down."

Steve crosses to the couch and they sit side by side. It's weirdly tense.

"The whole way over here, I was trying to figure out if I oughta tell you this," Steve says. "I keep wondering if maybe it's the wrong time, or if I should work things out in my head more first, or maybe even chicken out and keep my mouth shut. But I think I just have to spit it out. It's kind of a big deal, Bucky. I really hope you'll let me come live here again, and I can't do that and not have you know. So."

"If you're gonna spit it out, go right ahead," Bucky says, trying to hide how nervous this is making him.

"When Sam and I-" Steve begins, and then breaks off. His fingers fidget, the way they do when he's itching for a pencil and paper to doodle the thoughts running through his head. He sounds ashamed. "When we were talking things out just now, he said that the fact that I didn't even think to call him tonight showed a lot about our relationship. He said it showed just how little he really mattered to me, that I wasn't ever serious about him, or Peggy, or anyone. I was faking my way through every relationship, pretending it meant something when it didn't. He told me I shouldn't even be dating; I'm just messing up other people's lives." He takes a deep breath. "Because I'm in love with you. That's... that's what he said."

"What?" Bucky says. Once again it just doesn't compute.

"I think maybe I am," Steve says, staring down at his knees. "I think I always was."

" _No_."

He doesn't mean to say it so loud. It just comes out that way, a gunshot-crack of a word.

Steve looks up, pale and pained. "Bucky..."

"You can't do this. You can't fucking _do_ this." He's on his feet without knowing how it happened, ready to drag Steve upright and beat the living hell out of him, broken hand be damned. "You never even looked at me. _Never_. And now suddenly you're in love with me? What the fuck am I supposed to do with that?"

"I'm sorry," Steve says tightly. "I can't help it."

Involuntarily Bucky's fists clench and _fuck, Jesus_. The stab of pain in his hand clears his head just a little, enough for him to wonder how Steve has the nerve to sit there looking all noble and sad and injured. "Yeah, well neither could I. _Four years_ , you asshole. I've spent four years breaking my heart trying not to love you."

Steve's eyes go wide. His mouth opens, wordless.

Bucky takes a shuddering breath, struggling to stay in control. His hand throbs and he feels sick from the meds, and right now it's all too much to take in. All he knows is that Steve's lying, and it's making him so angry he can't see straight. "This is such bullshit," he says. "You never wanted me. If you'd wanted me I would have _known_! You never even looked at a guy until Sam. You never looked at _me_."

Steve's just sitting there staring up at him.

"Fuck you," Bucky says.

He can't be in the same room as Steve for even a second longer. Abruptly, desperately, he slams his way into his bedroom and throws himself down on the bed, gasping out a whimper as he jolts his cast against the mattress. He curls up around it and lets the pain wash over him, numbing everything else. Nothing makes sense any more. He can't do anything but lie there feeling crushingly, sickeningly humiliated. The ridiculous thing is, what if it's true? What if he was just too stupid to notice? That means all those days when he sat and cried and forced himself not to want what he can't have, they're _his_ fault for not daring to tell Steve how he feels. But it isn't true. He knows Steve too well for that. It's Steve and Sam, their own problems, getting all tangled up with his clinginess. It's Steve kidding himself that _I'm lonely_ means _I want you_. And now it's all out in the open, and Steve's gonna wake up tomorrow and say he's so sorry, but he was confused, Sam's the one he really wants. And they'll never be able to go back to the way things were before.

"Bucky?"

A tap at the door.

"Bucky, can I come in?"

"No."

The door opens anyway. Steve crosses the room in a few quick steps. Bucky can't look at him. He hears more than sees as Steve goes to his knees beside the bed and bows his head, resting his forehead on the edge of the mattress. Steve's breaths are shaky, uneven, like Bucky's own.

"I don't know what to say."

Steve sounds lost, like he doesn't understand what's happening outside his head. And he doesn't. He just doesn't get it. It's four years of yearning, many more of loving, and Steve's torn down the dam holding back everything Bucky's been hiding.

Bucky shakes his head, pressing his face into the pillow. "Just tell the truth. You never wanted me."

"I didn't have to," Steve says, choking on the words like every one of them wants to crawl back down into his lungs. "I already had you."

For long seconds, Bucky just lies there and listens to their mingled pattern of _inhale_ , _exhale_. He can feel silent tears finding a meandering path across his nose and down the side of his face to seep into the sheets.

"You were always there," Steve says. "I never knew how happy you made me until I tried living without you."

Bucky has to stifle a sob. After another minute, he feels a touch on his good hand. Involuntarily, he opens his clenched fist so Steve can latch onto it, squeezing tight.

"I've been so stupid," Steve says. "It took Sam telling me how I felt for me to see it. He said he was done with being second best, he was kidding himself thinking he could ever mean more to me than you do. And he's right. Nobody could mean more to me than you do. I just didn't realise that meant maybe I should _be_ with you."

"I've wanted you forever," Bucky croaks through his tears.

"Yeah," Steve says, with a strained little laugh. "I got that."

"I fucking hate Sam Wilson."

"Nobody hates Sam."

"Try me, pal," Bucky says, but there's no anger to it any more. The emotion is starting to drain out of him, leaving him feeling as exhausted and wrung out as he should expect to feel after a day of broken bones and hospitals. And then, within the exhaustion, he suddenly feels a flicker of surprised happiness. It's as though his heart is finally catching up with what his mind's been struggling to accept.

This could actually happen. Him and Steve.

"You broke up with Sam," he says, testing out the words.

"Yeah."

"You're gonna stay broken up?"

"Did you not hear me say I'm in love with you? I don't want anyone else."

"So..." Bucky says. "Us?"

"If you'll have me. Yeah."

It's still hard to believe. He wants the reassurance of touch. He wants Steve close. "Get up here," he says. He tries to shift across the bed, winces, and glances over at the clock. Yep, he's late on his next dose of meds." _Ow._ Okay, get me another Percocet. Then get up here."

A glass of water, a pill, and a couple of Kleenex later, he's lying there with Steve tucked up against his back, like they have so many times before. It should mean so much more this time, but he's too tired to think about that, especially with the drugs spreading through his bloodstream. He drifts. At some point, he's vaguely aware of Steve helping him out of his jeans and shepherding him to the bathroom to brush his teeth. He falls asleep listening to murmured words that he can't quite untangle, with Steve's warm breath against his neck.

***

A stab of pain wakes him. He must have rolled over in his sleep, and that's all it took to start his hand throbbing. There's a moment of panic -- was it all a drug-induced dream? -- until he hears the sound of the boiler and the shower running.

He lies there, listening as the water shuts off and Steve starts moving around on the other side of the wall. He can't stop replaying the previous night in his mind. It feels like he's teetering on the edge of some huge change. No, not on the edge; he's already fallen, and he's still falling now. He won't land in his new reality until Steve walks through that door.

Which, judging by the click of the bathroom door and the footsteps in the hall, will be in about two seconds.

Steve's dressed in his typical work wear of dark pants and a button-down -- part of the backpack-load of things he brought with him from Sam's -- and his hair's damp and spiky. "Hey, Buck," he says. "How's your hand?"

It's such a normal thing for him to say, so exactly the first, concerned question Bucky would have expected from him that it's like nothing's changed at all.

"Not great," Bucky admits. "It's okay until I move."

And that's when things stop being normal. Steve crosses the room slowly, a little uncertain. Bucky feels something in his chest catch. Then Steve's right there, right up close.

"I'm sorry it hurts," he says, running his hand over Bucky's hair and leaning down to press a quick kiss to his cheek.

They both freeze in that moment. Steve's caught in awkward stillness bending over the bed, their faces inches apart. Then he leans in again. Bucky cranes to meet him. It's such a simple kiss, close-mouthed and soft. Their first kiss.

Steve swallows and straightens up. "I'll get some water for your meds."

It's so strange. Every movement and glance between them is slowed and gentle, tender in a way they've never been with each other before. What they're doing is nothing at all out of the ordinary. Just Steve fetching a glass of water and the pills, sitting on the bed while Bucky drinks. Checking his hand, like the doctor had ordered. Reporting, "Looks like it's not gonna fall off, anyway."

A pause. A moment of stillness. A kiss.

Bucky runs the fingers of his clumsy right hand down Steve's cheek, brushing across his lips. It's unbelievable to think that he's allowed to do this now.

Another kiss.

_Christ_. Three chaste kisses, and his heart's beating so hard and fast he wonders if it's going to shatter into pieces.

"It's almost eight fifteen," Steve says shakily. He ducks his head and breathes in deep, blond lashes fluttering against his cheeks. Looks up. Smiles. "I gotta go to work. You'll be okay here? I'll fix you some cereal before I go, and I'll come check on you at lunchtime."

"I'm going into the studio," Bucky says, feeling dazed, unsure if it's from the drugs or Steve's closeness. "We've got a shoot."

"Nope. You've got _broken bones_. You're supposed to stay home and rest up."

Bucky scowls automatically. "Don't mother hen me, Rogers. I can handle it."

"Quit being a Big Damn Hero. The world won't end if you're not around to fix the angle of some overpriced hat."

"You're such a punk."

"God," Steve says. His breath hitches. "I love you so much."

Just like that. In the middle of a stupid argument about whether Bucky should go to work with a broken hand. Steve presses their foreheads together for a moment, touches their lips together again. Bucky's eyes are wet, and he knows he's not the only one.

"I have to get ready," Steve says again, pulling back. "You stay put. Don't make me call your boss and tell her not to let you in the door."

Bucky shakes his head. He can't stay put. "I'll go crazy if you leave me here. I'm gonna spend the whole damn day just waiting for you to come home."

"You'll survive."

"I'll survive if I go to work," Bucky says, shifting away and moving to strip off the t-shirt he slept in. And _ow, fuck_ , fuck his stupid hand.

"Bucky, _no_ ," Steve says, exasperated. "Are you kidding me? Come here."

He moves to untangle the shirt where it's snagged on Bucky's elbow. The movement brings them right up close together.

There's another one of those long, charged pauses.

Steve's hand fists in the worn cotton shirt. His other hand traces up Bucky's spine, feather-light. "Come _here_ ," he says.

This kiss is tentative, curious, an exploration of lips, a slowly growing heat. Steve's hands move, slow but sure, tugging the shirt up. They break apart long enough to peel it off, Steve easing it so carefully over the cast.

He presses kisses along Bucky's collarbone and softly up the side of his neck

"Call in sick today," Bucky says.

"Yeah."

"Kiss me again."

Their mouths meet. Bucky gasps, saying, " _Steve_." It doesn't seem real, and yet at the same time it's more vividly real than anything he's ever felt. Kissing Steve is just like he thought it would be, not because of the way Steve kisses, but because of the feelings of wonder and surprise and happiness that he'd known would come with it. The sense of being right where he's supposed to be.

It's also incredibly frustrating. His left hand's immobile and his right is awkward. He wants to touch so badly; he wants to strip Steve naked and kiss every inch of him. He tries, jolts his hand, swears.

"Hey," Steve says, pressing him back down onto the bed. "Hey, quit that. Relax, okay? Take it easy. Let's just stick to kissing for now."

"Why?" Bucky says, suddenly nervous. He’s never seen Steve checking out guys. Until Sam, he had been convinced Steve was 100% straight. Maybe Sam was the exception, as far as physical attraction went. "You are into this, right?"

"I'm into it," Steve promises, and kisses his neck as proof in a way that might just leave a mark. Which... wow, that's a nice thought. "I just want to start this thing -- _us_ \-- in a good place, and honestly my head's such a mess right now I feel like the closest good place is about four states over."

"We're not starting anything," Bucky argues. "We started eighteen years ago."

"Feels pretty new to me," Steve says. He brushes Bucky's hair back and away from his forehead, regarding him with a quizzical smile. "Also, you're dosed up on Percocet and you look like you might pass out on me."

And okay, yeah. Point. The world is definitely a little swimmier than it ought to be. Bucky makes a disconsolate face. "You're still not allowed to go anywhere. If I don't get to go to work, neither do you."

"I'm not going anywhere. I'll call in."

"You rebel. Lying to your boss."

"I'm not going to lie," Steve says, raising his eyebrow. "Don't you know me at all?"

Bucky snorts, because yeah, he really does. They break apart for long enough to make the calls. Bucky tells his boss about the hand thing, letting her assume it's a martial arts injury rather than the result of his own stupidity. After he hangs up, he catches the end of Steve's very earnest conversation with his office manager, in which he says that he's taking a personal day, no, he's not sick, yes, he knows he's supposed to give advance notice, no, he doesn't feel the need to explain why, and yes, he'll be back tomorrow. Fortunately, Steve's boss is the pragmatic type who will probably decide she can put up with this kind of thing in exchange for Steve's terrifying work ethic and perfectionism the rest of the time.

So that's their day. Gentle and quiet. Bucky allows himself to be pampered, allows Steve to help him with all the things that he can't manage one-handed, like putting toothpaste on the brush, or squeezing out shower gel and shampoo (Steve gets fairly damp in the process, which is a good look on him, but yet again Bucky can't do a lot about it when his head's swimming and one arm is swathed in plastic bags). Steve's right -- he's in no fit state to go to work, and probably won't be until he's off the serious painkillers. This is exactly what he needs: a day of couch time and kisses, with plenty of opportunities to touch.

It's not all easy. In the evening, Steve goes into his old bedroom to call Sam, and comes out an hour later, red-eyed and pale. "I'm going to go by tomorrow and pick up some more things, then move my stuff out this weekend," he says. "He doesn't want to see me for a while. I asked if we could still be friends, but he said it turns out we were never more than friends anyway, and now we're definitely less." He presses his face against Bucky's shoulder. "I just wish I could rewind the past two years and not hurt him."

Yeah, Bucky thinks, Steve needed a day of kisses too.

He wonders whether, if he had that rewind button, he would take back the four years he spent not telling Steve how he felt. It seems so cowardly in retrospect, especially considering that Steve had told Bucky how _he_ felt not two hours after realising it. But then he thinks back to the scared, confused kid he'd been, and he stops wondering. Whether or not the intervening years would have been better if he'd told, the Bucky of the past couldn't have done it. He wasn't ready. He was too young, with too much that he was afraid to lose.

Steve sighs, and Bucky kisses him again, a real kiss, teasing and warm. He's not a nice guy like Steve; he's not selfless enough to feel bad for Sam, to be understanding and indulge Steve's guilt. This kiss has a very definite message. _Forget him. You've got me._

He has Steve _now_. That's all he needs.


	11. Epilogue: Happiness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bucky’s life is good and nice stuff happens. YAY.

Happiness, Bucky discovers, takes some getting used to.

Much of his time is spent basking in the blissful knowledge that he and Steve are together, or when he's actually with Steve, being constantly surprised at the new dynamic between them, the little touches and the smiles and the way Steve makes him feel so special, so loved. But another quite significant part of his time is spent cringing at what an asshole he's been.

Take Peggy, for example. Up until now, every moment he ever spent with her was plagued by the awareness that she was Steve's girl, and later his ex. Peggy Carter knew what Steve was like in bed, and how it felt to kiss him and to wake up with him day after day. She knew all that, and Bucky didn't, and it had driven him totally nuts. Her very existence made him angry, and he disliked her thoroughly for no reason at all.

Now, though, he gets what makes her so... well, okay, the best word is _awesome_. He knew she was smart and beautiful. Now he sees her dry wit, her iron-clad principles, and her brutal honesty, and wonders how the hell he could have missed them for so long. And since he's no longer being a dick to her 90% of the time, she seems to like him much better, too. They get along. They go for coffee sometimes, and talk about Steve, and he feels no resentment, just the contented knowledge that, _you got to have him, but I get to keep him._

It's the same with Sam. God, he was a jerk to Sam. The first time they ran into each other after the break-up, he'd expected Sam to be angry with him for stealing Steve away. But no. Sam was angry because, as he put it, "You smiled at me and hated my guts for two years, man. I thought we were friends."

And that had made Bucky feel about six inches tall. He had always legitimately liked Sam, but there's no denying that quite often he'd looked at this great guy who'd been really kind to him when he needed it most, and thought _Sam fucking Wilson._

In retrospect, it's easy to see how much and how thoroughly he messed up. Possibly, he muses, the reason he and Tony used to get along so well as fuckbuddies, is that _both_ of them are self-centred assholes. But he hopes he's doing better at not being an asshole these days. It's like his mom used to say: it's easy to be nice when you're happy.

***

Probably after his years of dickishness, he deserves a bit of bad karma to come bite him in the ass, but that hasn't happened so far. In fact, what karma brings him in the mail one otherwise ordinary Tuesday morning is a nondescript-looking letter, which congratulates him on being the lucky recipient of Style Magazine's award for Young Fashion Photographer of the Year.

He sits down on the couch and stares at it, because... holy shit.

Holy _shit_ , this is a big fucking deal.

He'd completely forgotten about the competition. He vaguely remembers entering a couple of photos in the runway and street scene categories, but he can't remember which ones. And he'd submitted his whole portfolio for the young photographer award, because his boss told him to, and well, why not? It's the last year he qualifies.

He never had any expectation of _winning_.

He stares at the letter for a solid ten minutes, and then he sets it down by his computer and attempts to go back to work. He can't make himself call anyone for another two hours in case the paper dissolves and it all turns out to be some bizarre trick. When it finally sinks in, he calls Steve, who's delighted, but remains calm in the face of Bucky's ecstatic incoherence. Then he calls his boss who goes incoherent right back at him. and demands the right to take him out that evening for the world's biggest drink. So they do that, and Steve turns up at some point and laughs at Bucky and all of his co-workers getting cheerfully wasted, and finally coaxes Bucky home to bed with many cuddles and congratulations.

Even the massive hangover can't dim Bucky's good mood.

***

One of the things in the life-changing-announcement envelope was an invitation to the awards ceremony. It's a gala dinner thing with speeches, and the winners going up to collect their statues or certificates or rosettes, or whatever. The thought of it is a little nerve-wracking. Half of the big names in fashion publishing are going to be there; people will want to talk to him; it's _huge_.

He gets a whole table at the dinner: eight people including himself. His boss and two colleagues makes four, Steve's obviously number five, and there's still three to go. There's no point in asking his mom and dad, even though it makes him feel like a kid whose parents wouldn't come to his school play, so he invites Peggy and Tony. These days, the sniping between Tony and Steve is a lot more friendly, and Tony could always use a decent meal.

And for number eight, he asks Sam.

He really, really wants Sam to be there. Of the portfolio he submitted, some of the really stand-out photos are from that shoot a couple of years back with Sam and Steve playing around as his amateur models. And it's not just the photos themselves that are important. What he achieved that day really gave him confidence in his abilities as a photographer, and it taught him a huge amount about how to use his models, too. All in all, looking back, it's one of the key moments in his professional development. A lot of that is due to Sam. Even if Sam doesn't want to come to the dinner, it's important to ask, to acknowledge how much it means that he did the shoot in the first place.

Maybe the best way to thank someone for helping you out isn't by asking them to sit at a table with their ex and watch their ex's new boyfriend collect an award, but Bucky invites him anyway. Somewhat to his surprise, Sam says yes.

Sam's still Mr Well-Adjusted. He's not one to let things fester or to hold grudges, but neither is he the type to hide his feelings, and he and Steve are definitely not okay. Sam's hurt and angry, and he's not going to pretend otherwise just to make Steve feel better about himself. Bucky understands that, and admires it, because emotional honesty? Not easy. But since Steve's happiness is basically at the top of his list of the most important things in the universe, he can't help wishing there was some way to magically make Sam's anger vanish. Steve misses Sam like crazy, takes every possibly opportunity to do something nice for him, and always gets this hopeful look on his face whenever they're in the same room, like maybe this is the day Sam will forgive him. So far, no luck.

On the day of the dinner, they get all dressed up and march in as a group, because Bucky's boss isn't giving up her chance to make an entrance with her protégé. Steve and Sam are looking sharp as hell in their suits, Peggy's stunning in a traditional evening gown, and Tony's outfit is completely ridiculous but still manages to make him look eminently fuckable.

It's only a little bit awkward. Sam avoids speaking to Steve whenever possible, and when he does, it's without any particular warmth, but hey, there are six other people at the table. The food's good, and there's plenty of wine and conversation, and everyone seems to be enjoying themselves.

Then they reach the dessert course, and the presentations begin.

Bucky knows his is the second to last, just before the _actual_ photographer of the year, so he kicks back and watches the others with interest, talking in an undertone with his boss about each photo as it's shown on the big screen. Most of them are really impressive, and he tucks some ideas away in the back of his mind and marks down some of the photographers as people to watch out for. Then, finally, his turn comes. They do a little spiel about him first, which is embarrassing, and show a bunch of the photos from the portfolio, finishing on... yeah, of course, one of the Steve-and-Sam ones.

He can see why they chose it. It's a striking image, deceptively simple. Steve and Sam are both wearing a plain tank and jeans, and the backdrop is just a wide plank of wood leaning against the brick wall of the studio. Sam's standing straight with his thumbs in his belt loops, and Steve's sitting on a crate with one knee pulled up to his chest, gazing guilelessly out at the camera. Despite the fact that their outfits are almost identical, Sam's projecting 100% urban sex appeal, while Steve's all softness and freckles, looking like he wandered off the family farm and got lost in the big city.

They look incredibly good together, and Bucky has a sudden twinge of panic that he really fucked up by inviting Sam along, that this is just rubbing salt into the wound.

Then Sam leans around Peggy to whisper to Steve, "Aw, it's like he took a picture of your fluffy puppy-dog soul."

Steve looks surprised as hell for a second, but he covers it well. "I'm not a puppy, Sam," he hisses back. "We've been over this. I'm majestic."

"Sure. And if I threw a roll right now and yelled ' _fetch!_ ', we all know what would happen."

_"Ladies and gentlemen, James Barnes,"_ the presenter calls out, and Bucky gets to his feet and makes his way up to the stage. He glances back as he goes, to see Sam smiling as though the good-natured teasing is no big deal, and Steve doing his best to glare while looking like he just received the world's greatest Christmas present.

Maybe it's okay after all.

***

Bucky spends the next couple of hours mingling alongside his boss, getting introduced to people who already know his name, and internally freaking the hell out because he just spoke to the editor-in-chief of _Style_ magazine. She said they'd be very interested in commissioning him. He's not going to stop smiling for at least a month.

Finally, he rejoins his friends, who've been taking advantage of the open bar. As usual, Steve is the most sober, but even he's laughing more than usual at the others' attempts to dance. Bucky slides an arm around his waist and leans against him.

"You okay there, Buck?" Steve says.

"I'm _amazing_."

"You sure are," Steve says, and kisses him. "I was so proud of you tonight."

"You're a gigantic sap," Bucky says, but he's pretty sure he's actually glowing.

That's when Tony spots him and drags him away to dance. The rest of the evening is a bit of a blur. There's more dancing, and drinking, and Peggy snapping photos on her phone. The party doesn't wind down until after three, and by the time they pile into their respective cabs, Bucky's pretty much dead on his feet.

"Hey," Steve says, as the cab pulls away from the kerb. "Bucky? I'm going running with Sam tomorrow."

"Awesome," Bucky says, because it is, and maybe if he expresses approval Steve will let him sleep the rest of the way home. "I'm glad."

"You wanna come?"

Bucky shakes his head. Going running on Saturday morning is not his idea of fun at the best of times, and after a night out like this, the probability of it happening has gone from extremely slim to _Oh hell no_.

Besides, it's good for Steve and Sam to go together. Really good.

"I'll meet you guys for pancakes after," he says, and closes his eyes.


End file.
